


Scumbag Gate II: Bloodletting

by ddtiel



Series: Scumbag Gate II [3]
Category: Baldur's Gate
Genre: Action/Adventure, Betrayal, Drama & Romance, Family, Friendship, Hurt, M/M, Other, Pirates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2019-10-23 18:16:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 111,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17688431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ddtiel/pseuds/ddtiel
Summary: After licking their wounds from the conclusion of their battle against Amelyssan and the consequent disbanding of their party, Anqi and Dorn have travelled far to find themselves treasure hunting in Turmish. Yet time has not been kind, and the bloody bond between the Scourge of the Sword Coast and the Butcher of the Barrow has seen better days.Will the fallen blackguard's ambitions and the swashbuckling rogue's schemes rip them apart, or will the two scumbags find a way to hold onto each other, while a new danger creeps towards them from the west?





	1. The Cheerful Halfling's Charity

**Author's Note:**

> Oof! Been carrying this baby for almost three years now, but thanks to nurses AvandraTheMarySueSlayer and meuxelki's generous attention, I'm happy to present you with this rascal. Hope you enjoy its antics and don't find it too insufferable. 
> 
> A fair warning: this is a story about horrible people doing horrible things, and they are not sorry about it.  
>    
> PS: It's still not finished, so the updates will most likely be slow. I'll also include additional warnings for each chapter not covered in the tags if such need arises. If you find I've missed something, please let me know and I'll fix it. And gosh, I hope there aren't many mistakes after all the hours of editing.
> 
> *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The flame of his discarded torch died out with a shudder. Anqi paid it no mind and continued his work despite the unease creeping up his spine. Or perhaps it was the cold. He could see his breath coming out in puffs, the air in the gloomy underground chamber growing chilly without the heat from the fire. He slipped his lockpicks back under his bandana and rose from the moss-covered stone floor. Like the fourteen rooms he'd checked before, this one yielded no results. With a final fleeting glance about the rotten tapestries that once might have depicted scenes of hunts or other frivolities of the high-born, he turned on his heel and made for the next chamber, leaving his useless torch behind.

 

The low tunnel that connected all of the lower treasure chambers ran directly underneath its wider sibling that stretched from the main gate of the vault and then branched out into a dozen smaller corridors. It was darker here than on the level above, where his companions had lit a trail of torches they had brought along on the expedition, and much damper, although the entire structure had an equally mouldy and stifling air to it. Shallow pools formed in the gaps between the uneven stone floor, splashing his boots with stale, frigid water as he walked from one door to the next, the echo of his steps stifled by the mildew-covered walls that seemed to press in on him. He shivered, but not from the cold. His breathing was loud in his ears, and the shadows around him took the shapes of the ghosts of his past. There were grim memories in the darkness, but over the years he had grown accustomed to their cruel, unyielding fingers. He even learned to welcome the reproach they carried and enjoyed denying them his remorse, but every now and again he would remember the tiny cell under the monastery he'd once called home. The old fear would return, merciless, to steal the precious little sleep that remained to him when he was not haunted by the stench of blood and the shrieks of faceless friends being torn apart. The violent dreams came to him less often than two years ago when he still bore the dark god's taint, but he still welcomed each night with unease and the feeling of utter helplessness. He was always alone when he slumbered, either shivering as a child or hurting those he had come to love. More often than not, he would wake suddenly only after two or three hours of restless sleep and seek the warmth of his partner. Dorn would look at him queerly and tell him to go back to sleep. Obediently, Anqi would close his eyes but linger awake until it was time to rise, listening to the sounds Dorn made as he kept his watch. He would hear him uncork a skin of bitter ale, take a couple deep gulps, then settle against a tree and hone his sword's edge. The sound of the whetstone against the Abyssal Blade was as familiar to Anqi as the beating of his own heart and the low rumbles and hot hisses coming from the black steel as soothing as his lover's whispers.

 

He missed them, especially now in the darkness, and wondered where in the cold, stony depths of old Lord Ironcloak's vault Dorn was at the moment and what he was doing.

 

_Hopefully, he's having more success at finding the damn mirror than I am_ , he thought as he unlocked the door of the sixteenth chamber and, because there was nothing or no one there to stop him, began humming a light tune.

 

The memory of Dorn's voice wasn't the only weapon he had against the dark. With the sound of dripping water in the room, the soft clinking of his lockpicks and the faint hammering in the distance as his accompaniment, he sang a short song about a clever maid who had tamed a wild stallion and rode him into the sunset to the chagrin of all the men in town. It was a dirty song full of double-entendres made to be sung as a duet; a man taking on the role of the bewildered storyteller and a woman the maid. Anqi loved it as much as Dorn hated it, and no matter how many times the half-elf asked, Dorn would never join in. But that was fine—Anqi was content to sing both parts on his own, changing his voice as required. It was half a miracle he knew the melody and the words as well as he did—whenever a bard would start strumming his harp at an inn or tavern, his partner would insist they changed locale or withdraw to their sleeping quarters. Anqi didn’t protest often but in return, he would torment Dorn with his own renditions of the tunes he’d picked up. His tongue may have been glib but it lacked a singer's finesse, as his grim other-half had proclaimed on numerous occasions. Yet however off-key Anqi was, it made his gloomy work go faster, and Dorn was too far to hear and berate him.

 

_That_ he could certainly go without, no matter how anxious he grew in the dark vault on his own. For the past four months, all he ever heard from Dorn were complaints about the lack of progress in their quest. Anqi was well aware of it, which only made him more determined, if not a little desperate, to find that blasted enchanted mirror before the group retreated to their camp for the night. If it could put a smile on Dorn’s face—and thus shut him up for a minute—he was ready to toss the whole bloody vault brick by brick. Unfortunately, judging by the lacklustre contents of the last few rooms, it seemed he would have to do just that. During his search, the only worthwhile treasures he managed to uncover were a couple of old but detailed and still legible maps and a few exotic birds' feather quills. He nabbed them for himself, but the grand prize still eluded him, and so his search continued.

 

After unlocking the sixteenth and final room and noting it looked very much like the fifteen he'd been investigating for the last six hours, he guessed that just like them, it would not offer him any more success in finding his quarry. They were all spacious and filled to the brim with coffers bursting with gold and jewels, richly decorated with sodden carpets, mouldy paintings and wall-hangings, but none of them had as much as hinted at the whereabouts of the mirror, not to mention holding the damn thing within its confines. Despite all that, Anqi stepped onto the intricately quilted, soggy rug and began inspecting the walls for hidden tiles or loose stones that could reveal a cache where old Lord Ironcloak could have hidden a treasure much more valuable than the contents of his many coffers. Just like before, he found nothing out of the ordinary. Next came the treasure chests themselves. He emptied them one by one, sifting through coins, pendants, loose precious stones from glittering diamonds to blood-red rubies, coils of necklaces, pearl, coral and jade. He had lost count on how many of such chests he had gone through since he began his tedious task, but the ache in the muscles of his arms and hands told him it was too damn many. Still, he continued, until he was sure all five of the large coffers did not hold the mirror. His hopes dwindled to practically nothing but, just to make sure he didn’t miss anything, he kicked away the carpet with his steel-pointed boot and squatted over the mossy slabs of stone.

 

He squinted and grinned.

 

As the accomplished burglar that he was, it was both his excellent eye for detail as well as the darkvision he inherited from his half-elven mother—the only valuable gift she had bestowed upon him before dying—that allowed him to see in the dark as if it were merely dusk. With years of thieving experience under his belt—just like he had assured Brammin Redtooth at least thrice on their way to the underground vault—he was able to spot the oddly-coloured, seemingly irregular shape in one of the slabs and see it for the secret switch he'd been hoping to find.

 

“Finally,” he huffed, as lockpicks appeared in his hands. He prodded at the hidden mechanism underneath the mossy surface of the slab until he felt one snag on the trap he'd been expecting. With a precise flick of his fingers, the pick disarmed it and, like a thousand times before, Anqi heard the satisfying _click_. He pushed the switch, and the whole slab jerked upwards by a couple millimetres. He wasn't sure if it were meant to stop there, or if the mechanism was too rusted to work properly, but he could take it from there. He replaced his tools with a throwing dagger he pulled from the leather strap across his chest and shoved it between the stones. A puff of icy wind hissed, covering his arm hair and scar tissue with magical frost, but it was nothing more than a harmless residue from the trap he’d disarmed. After a few more seconds of gentle prying, the slab came loose. He slipped his fingers underneath and pushed it to the side revealing a bejewelled coffer made of dark wood, cherry or mahogany perhaps. Its ornate lock practically shattered when he took his sword’s hilt to it. His heart was racing; maybe this was finally it.

 

He opened the box.

 

Then seized it and hurled it at the wall, sheets upon sheets of rotted parchment falling from within. “ _Vith!_ ” he cursed in Drowic, a habit he’d picked up from a former companion. He rose and pressed two sharp knuckles against his right brow, his thoughts racing as he started to pace around the cluttered room.

 

Could his information be false? It was well known in these parts of the land that Lord Ironcloak had been an avid collector of things strange and exotic back in his day, so his secret stash had seemed like the perfect place to seek out the Black Mirror of Waning. Most likely, the lord would have had no clue about the mirror's magical properties, as the artefact activated only after a rite of blood, and had added it to his collection due to its supposed beauty. Yet after hours of meticulous searching, Anqi was starting to accept that it may not have been here after all. “Seek the Black Mirror, he said. Extract the power from even liches, he said,” the thief muttered angrily, as he replaced his dagger, and then stomped out of the room, heading towards the stairs that led into the main chamber of the vault where he knew he would find the others.

 

_Better get this over with quickly_ , he thought as he imagined his partner's furious scowl and the days, if not weeks, of grief and scorn he'd have to suffer. _I will have deserved it, too, for trusting that old swindler._

 

Dark thoughts simmered in his mind, all of them directed at the toothless soothsayer they’d sought out in Arrabar, who had sold him the intel on the mirror’s location. Costing them five thousand gold pieces, it had been a risky investment, but at the time Anqi thought it was worth giving up their last bit of savings if it meant satisfying Dorn’s desire. Yet after all the trouble, he had nothing to show for once again. He doubted finding the old-timer to wreak vengeance upon him would come even close to making it up for the time and gold they’d wasted. What was worse, this failure meant he’d have to reveal his other plan—one he’d kept close to his chest—sooner rather than later, and he could only hope Dorn would not find it as outrageous as Anqi feared he might.

 

Sombre, he made his way through the dreary and narrow corridor towards the noise his comrades were making, giving the statues of knights and maidens, heroes and grotesque creatures located in alcoves on either side of the passage barely a glimpse. The whole vault was decorated with an assortment of images straight from tales and fables: canvases depicting a lord partaking in a hunt for a unicorn, a tapestry showing a handsome, young man and a fair nymph in an embrace or an engraving of a bearded king clad in rich garments holding court over smiling and grateful peasants. Anything one might find in songs could be found on the walls, furniture or decorations and, however distinct each image was, they all had one thing in common—the face of the central character, Lord Ironcloak. Anqi wondered if the man had done half the deeds his paintings boasted of; from the hoards of treasures he assumed the late ruler of the decimated town of Ironcloak had travelled far and wide, yet there was something false in his painted face, an insincerity in his carved eyes. Anqi did not trust someone who claimed to have lived so many different lives to be this pleased with himself—he wasn't.

 

_And this life of treasure hunting might soon come to an end as well_ , he thought and wondered how false his eye would have seemed to others.

 

A terrible crack welcomed him inside a cavernous chamber. Brammin Redtooth’s axe had just turned an antique chair into smithereens, leaving only its golden legs intact. The dwarven leader of their party picked out splinters from his bushy, brown beard, brushed them off his worn-out chainmail, then readied his weapon for another swing. His raven-haired elven wife and constant shadow, Vensys, her black leather armour looking much newer than her husband’s attire, supplied the next chair for destruction. It looked like they were halfway done with their work, as all the furniture on one side of a vast, rectangular table was already destroyed, with the rest of the gilded chairs awaiting their demise on the other. After another deafening crack and another destroyed chair joining the pile, the woman spotted Anqi and whispered something to her husband.

 

“So, the servant decides to show his scratched up mug, eh? Where ye been at, boy? We didn’t let ye tag along so ye could spend half a day lollygaggin'. Grab a chair or get started on the picture frames; there’s plenty more to grab than them jewels and loose coin.”

 

Anqi raised a brow at the dwarf and leaned over the table to examine the carnage he and his wife had caused. “You didn’t let me tag along—I came because Master wished it. And in case all this banging damaged your memory, allow me to remind you that it was me who cracked open the lock and let you lot inside, as per our deal. And we didn’t sign up to be your muscle; you have that covered yourself, apparently. Besides, from the look of things, I’d say you’ve already got enough to change your name to Goldtooth without stooping to vandalism.” He motioned to the four sizeable coffers lined up against the wall, three of them already filled to the brim with various treasures. He didn't doubt the dwarf would want to return to claim the coffers Anqi had discovered, but the wagon they had would never fit everything.

 

His face red, Brammin swung his axe. Its blade got stuck in the plush seat of the next chair with a _thunk_. “Rip me beard off and call me a gnome! Not only are ye mouthy and lazy but stupid to boot as well! There is no such thing as enough gold! Ye’d do well with a serious caning from that master of yers; let him put some of that brutish strength into good use, instead of showing off carrying around that huge sword of his and wearing a suit o'armour big enough to fit my boy.”

 

The boy in question was, in fact, a human-shaped boulder of a man, currently smashing up gilded frames of the paintings hanging around the room with his oversized war hammer. He was large enough to dwarf even Dorn, and Anqi had doubts if any armour he had ever seen would fit someone as humongous as him. When Brammin had introduced them to his group, he mentioned that Cheeks, as the overgrown lad was called, had some half-ogre blood in him. It was easy to believe due to his bald and lumpy head as well as wide, protruding lips. Anqi thought the man was just an ugly halfwit but didn’t hold it against him. In fact, from the four other companions they had gained when joining Brammin’s group, Cheeks was the one he disliked the least. Unlike the dwarf, conversing with the giant was much more pleasant. “I’ll make sure to remind Master to give me what I deserve. If you’ll excuse me,” he said barely hiding his disdain and left the dwarf and his scowling wife to their work. He made his way toward the giant.

 

“Hello elf-man,” Cheeks said and beamed when Anqi stopped next to him. Some drool escaped from his mouth and was glistening on his lower lip. He wiped it with the back of his enormous hand. “Man ride horse good, look,” the manchild chuckled and pointed at the mouldy canvas. It depicted Lord Ironcloak taking part in a fox hunt while mounting a handsome stallion. More of the lord’s egocentric depictions hung around the chamber waiting to be smashed, and although they were all beautiful paintings, Anqi didn’t feel sad about seeing them destroyed at all.

 

A soft bang on the frame brought him back to reality. He patted Cheeks on his massive shoulder. “Man ride horse good indeed,” he agreed. The giant giggled and continued his task; for such an enormous lump of muscle wielding a deadly weapon like his war hammer, his strikes seemed almost gentle. Anqi left him to it and followed the portraits to the end of the great hall, where his ‘Master’ and the last of Brammin’s motley crew were investigating the first out of six suits of armours lined up against the wall. The halfling called Knobber Snapfinger was chattering at Dorn, his ginger head shaking as he spoke, his tiny, round hands gesticulating excitedly and his short, stubby fingers snapping as he talked. Dorn, naturally, did his best to ignore him, giving the antique mail all of his attention instead. Anqi’s slow approach, however, did not elude him.

 

“Well? Have you found it?” he said with impatience. Anqi felt like shrinking under his demanding gaze. He took a breath and gave Dorn his best easygoing smile.

 

“This one is a bust, Master, unless we actually start tearing the walls down. Next one will go better,” he said with what he hoped sounded like confidence. Dorn wasn't fooled.

 

“Out of the question!” he roared, his voice echoing in the grand hall. “I’ve had enough of your ridiculous treasure hunts. Speak of a 'next time', and I swear I will make you regret it," he said, his voice low, and glared at the dwarf who had ceased his smashing at the outburst. He grabbed Anqi by the collar and pulled him closer. "I gave you half a year and the last four months you've wasted on dragging me around Turmish. And for what? Another venture? Oh no. No, we’re going back.”

 

‘Back’ meant returning to the Sword Coast. The thought sent a chill down Anqi’s spine. There was nothing but painful memories and the threat of death for him there, but Dorn was convinced it was the only place he could find his glory. Anqi remembered a time when that wasn’t true, when they travelled across the Shining Sea to the Border Kingdoms and, in order to evade the Tethyrian emissaries and bounty hunters, had joined one of the many private armies looking for fresh bodies. Dorn had flourished back then, cutting down waves after waves of adversaries. Anqi could recall the shivers he’d always get from seeing his partner covered in blood, a look of sheer pleasure on his face during those days of triumph and looting. And he remembered the nights even more vividly when they took all the time in the world to enjoy each other to the fullest.

 

But just like all good things in his life, it did not last long.

 

After only a couple months, word of their deeds from Amn and Tethyr, and even Baldur’s Gate had reached the Kingdoms, and soon the mercenaries with whom they had shared their drinks traded their cups for blades. Killing their companions had felt the same as killing their opponents on the battlefield, but the slaughter and consequent escape north, followed by the disastrous mistake he did not want to recall, had taught Anqi an invaluable lesson about never getting too comfortable in one place. Or among one group of people. Unfortunately, Dorn had come to a different conclusion and ever since he had been insisting on taking care of their unfinished business back in the Sword Coast. Anqi swore to himself he would never return after his battle with Amelyssan had concluded, yet each day they remained on the run saw Anqi’s morale dwindling and Dorn's patience running out. With no way to appease his lust for power, Anqi feared it would not be long before Dorn’s insistence would get the best of him. No, he knew it would happen and soon.

 

But not today.

 

“By Cyrrollalee, please, Master! Adrian isn’t to blame,” Knobber said, warmth and conviction radiating from the halfling's face. “He tried his best to please you and find… whatever you were looking for. He didn’t mean to upset you. Isn't that right, Adrian?”

 

Anqi jumped when the halfling touched his thigh lightly, having forgotten to react to the moniker, and resented himself for choosing his real name instead of making up a new one. “Thank you, friend, but Master is right to be upset—I am too.”

 

A growl rumbled in Dorn’s chest, but he said no more. Anqi knew that meant trouble for later; his partner was an expert at holding grudges, but urging him to speak when he wasn’t ready led to even more strife. He supposed the few hours left of this day they would spend not speaking to one another. That was fine too—he needed the time to prepare to tell Dorn about the plan he’d concocted months ago, and had been taking steps to complete behind his back. Making him understand why Anqi never shared it with him was bound to be a huge, but hopefully not insurmountable hurdle, and he needed to be ready for the worst.

 

“It's not all bad when you think about it,” the halfling said carefully, his big, blue eyes cheerful. “We did manage to uncover loads of wonderful treasure in these halls—that’s surely enough to satisfy anyone. Besides, Mister Master, weren't you going to give Adrian that chest you argued over so heatedly with Mistress Vensys? If not ideal, it should serve nicely as a consolation prize, no?”

 

Dorn scoffed, as Anqi raised his eyebrow. “What chest?”

 

“Forget it.”

 

“No need to be shy, now. It’s wonderful to share, especially when you’re feeling troubled yourself,” Knobber encouraged, beaming at him and Dorn as if they were two children he was trying to reconcile with each other.

 

“Keep your witless opinions to yourself, halfling, unless you desire to share in my wrath,” Dorn snapped. “And you!”—he turned to Anqi, his teeth bared, his fangs gleaming in the soft torchlight—”Don’t think of this as a reward but a reminder of your folly. Just like you, these gaudy trinkets are all but useless!” He thrust a half-rotted chest at Anqi, but before the rogue could even think to thank him, Dorn was halfway across the chamber, his heavy, black, leather-trimmed mantle swishing with his quick step.

 

Knobber released a breath he was holding with a sigh and squirmed looking at Anqi. “No offence to your Master, but I don’t know how you can stand serving someone so angry and disrespectful like that. I wouldn’t last a day, I think. Your nerves must be made of steel.”

 

Anqi was thinking just the opposite. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he pried the chest open, keeping a strong grip on the slightly damp wood to stop his hands from shaking. But when he saw what was inside, he couldn’t help but smile. “He’s not so bad once you get used to him,” he said softly, as he picked up one out of twenty ornate pins and held it up to the light. Each of the ornaments had been meticulously crafted to resemble a different animal, each having been made out of a differently coloured metal and decorated with unique precious stones. The one he picked up was made from obsidian in the likeness of a stag no larger than his pinky, which was staring at him intently with tiny, ruby eyes. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Unease lodged itself in the pit of his stomach; if he couldn’t make Dorn happy with his backup plan, he wouldn’t know how else he’d make everything up to him. Perhaps he would have to return to the Sword Coast with him after all. Perhaps finding death with his love at his side would not be so terrible.

 

“Well, this is certainly not what I thought someone as… morose as your Master would argue over with a lady, though I suppose he did take your fondness of ornaments into consideration,” the halfling said when Anqi showed him the coffer’s contents. “And these are much nicer than that… twisted little spider you wear on your head. You know, the first time I saw you, I thought I ought to swat it right off your bandana, that's how real and… vicious it looked.”

 

Anqi grinned at Knobber, despite the dread he felt at the prospect of making a journey back west. “I would advise against speaking so harshly of her—my Kitthix is a sensitive girl. And Master may be rough around the edges but he provides me with all that I need.”

 

Knobber, for once, chose to hold onto his thoughts although doubt was written all over his face. That was fine. Anqi put away the stag head pin and placed the rotted chest inside the bag on his right hip. Since he was already here, he had a mind to inspect the rest of the chamber to make sure he didn’t miss a hidden trapdoor or a secret lever when Cheeks let out a yelp of fright. The giant was staggering backwards from a painting he was going to smash and holding his war hammer up to defend himself. A gaseous form emerged from the wall and was advancing at him, brandishing its long claws. “No! Leave Cheeks be!” the giant bellowed and flailed his weapon. The creature coiled back, hissing.

 

“A vampiric mist!” Vensys shouted, then dropped her chair and notched her bow. “Cheeks, do not let it touch you!”

 

The warning of his mistress seemed to agitate the giant man even more, and he swung his weapon at the red mist with all his might, but the hit went through it without causing any damage. In response, the creature swiped its claws at him. Cheeks gasped and fell to one knee. He dropped his weapon and clutched at his chest. His face turned as white as a corpse. His two swords already drawn, Anqi broke into a sprint.

 

“Tressspassersss!” the mist hissed, raising its claw to strike again. “You thought you could drown me and sssteal my treasssure. It’sss mine, only mine!”

 

The mist attacked, but this time the gaseous strike met with resistance; Dorn’s Abyssal Blade and Anqi’s Celestial Fury both clashed with the creature's claws in a burst of sparks above Cheeks’ hunched body, then moved as one to parry the attack. Vensys followed their charge with a flaming arrow, nicking the creature on its shoulder, then fired again. This time the arrow struck where its face should’ve been. The vampiric mist shuddered and let out a shrill gasp of pain, slithering sideways to take Anqi from behind. It swiped at him but the rogue jumped away, his body twisting in midair, and delivered two precise slashes at the creature's head. The blazing blade of his off-hand sword, Daystar, ignited the gaseous body and sent the undead creature into a panicked fit, its long arms and wispy tail flailing blindly. It let out an ear-splitting shriek, but a slam of Dorn’s greatsword silenced it, the blade’s dark flame burning away the remainder of the mist, leaving only a singed shape on the floor and a handful of polished black stone shards.

 

Blood drained from Anqi’s face. “No, no, no,” he muttered as he dropped to his knees to pick up the fragments of looked like an obsidian mirror. His hands tingled as he held them, and deep in his gut, he knew they had just destroyed the magical item he and Dorn had come so far to retrieve. Or, looking at it more closely, although the revelation offered little consolation, a mere imitation of the famed artefact. The Black Mirror of Waning was meant to bind the power of whatever it was aimed at and channel it into the wielder; this broken trinket had most likely sucked the life out of its owner, the vain Lord Ironcloak, turning him into a spectre. Gritting his teeth, he tossed the shards aside, then looked to Dorn, whose scowl could rival that of a dragon awakened from his slumber. Anqi wanted to appease him somehow, but he couldn't find the words to do it.

 

“Why are you standing there like fools!? Help him!” yelled Vensys who was holding Cheeks’ head to her chest like a mother with a child, her angular face flushed, her yellow eyes wide and frightened. Brammin was pressing on the gash on his boy’s chest, trying to stop the gouts of blood that were quickly turning his grey tunic red. Knobber ran past Anqi to attend to him, chanting one healing spell after another. The wound closed quickly, but Cheeks’ breathing was still ragged and his face pale. “Why isn’t he better?” Vensys grabbed the halfling by his collar and shook him.

 

“I-I don’t know!” he stammered. “I’ve done all I could!”

 

“Is this what we’re paying you for? Excuses!?” the-she elf hissed, then shoved the halfling hard and turned to Dorn. “What about you? Have your mongrel look for something useful in that bag of his!”

   

Dorn glowered at the insult, but Anqi stepped in between them before his partner could respond. His scroll case already in hand, Anqi sifted through the spell-encrypted parchments with practised ease. “This will bring back his strength,” he said, as he produced the Restoration scroll and touched Cheeks’s shoulder. He read it out and, as the man’s breath calmed, his own turned slightly winded.

 

“Thank you, Adrian, I... I didn’t think to prepare a Restoration spell,” Knobber said, tears gleaming in his eyes. “My apologies, Mistress Vensys.”

 

The she-elf slapped him. “Don’t ever speak to me, halfling. Come, my sweet, let’s get you out of here.”

 

She helped the giant to his feet and guided him out of the chamber. Brammin saw them off, and then replaced his axe in its holster. “Me wife will sure appreciate it,” he told Dorn, but there was something strange in the fleeting look he gave Anqi—the condescension was still there, but now there was also apprehension. “Not everyday ye see a battle-hardened burglar," he said nodding at Anqi who had a sinking feeling he had shown the dwarf something he shouldn’t have. "Must’ve trained the whelp hard, eh, master half-orc? Given him quite the arsenal too, two shiny blades. Ye don't see likes of them very often.”

 

“I don't like your tone, dwarf," Dorn said in an undertone. "Where we come from, you either know your way around a weapon or you die, regardless if you’re a street urchin or a seasoned warrior. What weapons he's got he burgled, or do you wish to question his skills as a thief again? You and yours would do best to be mindful of that the next time you have a problem with me and mine.” That was, of course, only partly true, but Anqi was glad Dorn kept to the story he had come up with. In response, Brammin squinted his beady eyes at him.

 

_The greedy bastard is more perceptive than I’d realised_ , Anqi thought, irritated. But then the dwarf gave a quick nod and turned towards the four treasure chests, his inquiry at an end.

 

“Nay, no problem. We’re done here fer today,” he said. He then hoisted one of the coffers onto his back and followed his wife. All the while, Knobber stood there speechless, touching his face where he’d been struck.

 

Anqi’s shoulders relaxed at the pitiful sight. “There goes your bonus,” he said with a wry grin. The halfling flinched and stared at him with a stricken look on his face. For a moment Anqi wanted to give him a second slap. “It's just a joke," he said instead and clapped the halfling on the back. "Don’t worry, you didn’t know there would be bloodsuckers in here.”

 

“I should’ve been prepared. You were. And the way you moved! It was… incredible.”

 

“Master and I travel alone most of the time; I have to do my best.” Anqi’s gaze met Dorn’s, but the half-orc turned to go get his chest. Nestling it securely under his armpit, he then picked up a second one and walked out without a word. Anqi felt a sting in his left eye and instinctively pulled his bandana lower to make sure it was covering most of the left side of his face. He didn't wish to give Knobber another reason to quail.

 

“Adrian, you’re bleeding!” the halfling gasped.

 

Anqi's fingertips came away dark and moist. A rivulet of blood ran from underneath the black material, following the shallow crevasses marring the lower part of his cheek. When he wiped it away with the back of his hand the blood was almost black. He cursed under his breath but smiled. “Don’t mind me. It’s nothing.”

 

“Were you injured in the fight? Please, let me take a look at it.”

 

“I said it’s nothing,” Anqi snapped and turned away from the halfling. Then he remembered the role he was meant to play and forced himself to look abashed. “I’m so sorry, friend. I shouldn’t have yelled. It’s just an old wound that must’ve reopened. I can handle it on my own, see?” He produced a weak healing scroll and cast the spell on himself. He knew that would stop the minor bleeding, but the dull pain in his left eye that would follow was going to last for a while. It seemed he was due for another dose of the potion earlier than he expected. This was troubling, but he would deal with it once he and Dorn had their share of the spoils and returned to the city.

 

“Well, if you do need me to check up on you later, let me know,” Knobber said hesitantly. Anqi smiled again and squeezed the halfling's shoulder.

 

“Much obliged, truly. Now, let’s see about lugging that chest out of this godsforsaken hole, and then you can make that incredible stew again. A few spoonfuls and I’ll be as good as new.”

 

At the mention of his cooking Knobber puffed out his chest. “You really like it that much? It’s my great auntie’s recipe! If you’d like it, I can teach you how to make it.”

 

“Please do,” Anqi agreed, and then listened to the halfling list the ingredients and recite the cooking instructions, which made the climb out of Ironcloak’s damp vault if not quicker, then much less boring. By the time they passed the rusted gate that Anqi cracked open this morning to let everyone in, his stomach was clenched from hunger rather than anxiety.

  


***

 

Spring in Vilhon Reach, and especially in the Republic of Turmish, had been unusually wet that year. The farmers and the merchants said so all across the region at every inn, stable and crossroads market ever since he and Dorn crossed the Aphrunn Mountains. Weather anomalies had never interested Anqi as long as they did not interfere in his travels and this peculiarly profuse rainfall would have remained only a nuisance if he had not had crossed paths with Brammin Redbeard and his lot. Thanks to a few whispers Anqi's associate sang into the right ear, he and Dorn earned the questionable privilege of departing on a treasure hunt with the dwarf, which was only possible because of said rainfall. During their two-day ride to the ruins of Ironcloak, Knobber had gushed thrice about the amazing coincidence that involved the heavy rains overflowing the Alaoreum River and the blessing from his goddess, Cyrrollalee, that made them run into each other and set out on the expedition together, all the while snapping his fingers with merry ignorance of how annoying the sound had become after mere minutes. Pointing out to the halfling that Anqi and Dorn had been introduced to Brammin based on the skill sets they possessed had done the rogue no good, so after he was forced into the conversation about fate for the third time, he simply smiled and nodded, which had, unfortunately, earned Anqi another round of finger snapping.

 

The other little miracle, as Knobber called them, was much more extraordinary. Anqi had learned from the tavern gossip in Alaghôn that the town of Ironcloak had once been ruled by an arrogant lord who thought the forest around his town belonged solely to him. The Emerald Enclave had found such proclamation an outrage and had demanded he cease cutting down the trees and polluting the river. After the lord disregarded their initial warnings, they sent forth a delegation of druids to punish him. They had raised a small army of earth elementals who razed the town to the ground while the river flooded its banks and killed those who tried to flee. Some thought that too was the work of the druids, some say it was the forest itself punishing the greedy lord. Anqi could have cared less about which of these theories were true; the only thing that interested him in the entire story was the treasure the late lord had hidden somewhere beneath the town, which, until this spring, had been impossible to find. The little miracle, as it turned out, was the second flooding of the river, one even greater than the one that had washed away the townsfolk in the first place, and the consequent emergence of a sinkhole half a kilometre from the bank. Anqi also heard there had been a few adventurers who had gone to loot the Ironcloak vaults before Brammin's group, but they had either returned empty-handed or not come back at all. Those who had made their way back spoke of the treacherous climb down into the slippery hole and a hidden door impossible to unlock. That's where Anqi had come in to prove that the tales of the would-be treasure hunters were only half-true. And just as he had feared, Knobber had showered him with nothing but praise for opening the vault door. The others weren't as eager to compliment him, especially since he had been pretending to be a street urchin his master had taken off the street to be his servant, but that suited Anqi just fine. The mechanism in the door had been anything but special, and it was mostly the traps and the rust that had made it more difficult to crack. But of course, Brammin's lot did not need to know how unremarkable Anqi's contribution had been. As for the climb, that indeed was a much more significant an obstacle which, Anqi was only now realising, would be twice as hard to overcome with a coffer full of gold and a half-blind halfling who would need a torch to see in the gloom of the evening. His kind did not possess darkvision like the others did, save for Cheeks, but the giant was big and strong and had climbed out of the hole before sundown. Anqi let his end of the chest fall into the mud and wiped the sweat off his nose.

 

"We could call for help," said Knobber, looking up at the dark slope. Their camp was just a throw of a hat away from the edge of the sinkhole so Anqi curled his hands into a tube and yelled for assistance. There came no reply. Feeling embarrassed and, most importantly, hungry, Anqi gave the coffer a jerk and started towards the gentler side of the slope.

 

"We'll manage," he told Knobber resolutely, ignoring the other's whimper as he lifted his end of the chest. They moved as close to the wall of soggy dirt as they could and let the coffer down again. Anqi put his hand into the bag on his left hip and had to move a few books, the maps he'd found and his spare pair of boots around before he found a coil of rope. He handed one end to Knobber and fastened his end to his waist. “Tie this around the coffer and make sure to loop it on all sides. I’ll climb up first and pull it up. Then I’ll throw the rope back to you.”

 

“Great idea!” the halfling exclaimed with a snap of his fingers and attended to the chest.

 

_So naive_ , Anqi thought, as he jumped up to grab a thin but strong root protruding from the wall and pulled himself up. Carefully, he dug his feet into the soft mud and began the climb. He was halfway up when he slipped for the first and only time, but from then on he had to keep reassuring Knobber that he was fine every time he managed to pull himself up higher. Between trying to calm the halfling down and looking for an adequate root sticking out from the mud, he wondered how someone like the pure-hearted cleric got involved in adventuring. Anqi did not foresee Knobber Snapfinger staying in the business for very long, nor becoming the kind of person bards wrote songs about. Someone who wouldn't even bat an eye when told he must stay in a hole in the middle of nowhere and trust in a person he'd met only three days ago was not fit to survive the harsh life of an adventurer, especially not when travelling with the likes of Brammin Redtooth. He had no doubts the dwarf and his shrew of a wife would have left the halfling to die down there had they been in his shoes. The realisation filled Anqi with a strange sense of pity but there wasn’t anything he could do to help the poor lad out but advise him to seek another means of employment. He had a sinking feeling Knobber would ask whether Anqi would have him, but there was only one answer to that question. Weaklings like him tended to find death travelling with Dorn and him, and he didn't need another unfortunate stranger to meet their end just because they happened to cross paths with the Scourge of the Sword Coast. Yes, it had to be that way. As soon as they reached Alaghôn, he would bid the kind halfling farewell and hope to never see him again.

   

Anqi reached the top to the sound of Knobber cheering him on. After the last 'You can do it!' he wiped some of the mud off his chest, then found a sturdy beech a few paces from the edge of the hole. He transferred his rope around it and made a tight knot. He asked Knobber if he was ready, then gripped the rope tightly and pulled.

 

Nothing happened.

 

He tried again to the same effect. Swearing, he let go and checked if the halfling wasn’t trying to hitch a ride on top of the coffer. He wasn’t. “Anything wrong?” Knobber asked once he saw him peering down.

 

“No, don’t worry. It will only take another minute,” Anqi assured the halfling, then tried the rope again but just like the two times before, it did not budge. Once, he’d have this done without breaking a sweat, but the strength he used to possess was no longer at his disposal. It infuriated him to no end to know that the physical prowess he’d been so proud of his entire life had nothing to do with the hours he’d spent climbing walls as a young boy, helping the smith in the stable and training in secret when Candlekeep slept but was simply a boon granted to him by his father’s godly blood. There had been a few times during his mercenary days when he regretted giving up Bhaal's power when having been just a little bit stronger and a tad quicker would have prevented him or Dorn from getting hurt. He wasn’t ashamed of those thoughts; they had been desperate moments when their survival had been on the line, and he had since then grown accustomed to his new limitations. Or so he thought. “ _Xsa'ol!_ ” he swore, abandoning his futile struggle against the rope. Flushed, he scratched his head. His finger brushed against one of the spider figurine’s legs. An idea popped in his head, and he tapped the black spider again, wondering if Kitthix was strong enough to help him pull up the chest. A twig snapped to his right and Dorn emerged from the grove leading one of the two horses Brammin had brought with them. Taking in Anqi's predicament, he let out a scoff.

 

“Have you gone soft in the head?" He approached, then added in an annoyed whisper. "One could really think you are the dull-witted serving boy you play so well. You should know better to use a horse for a job like this, not your magical spider.”

 

Anqi stepped back hastily, heat rising to his ears. “You know how I feel about horses.”

 

“All too well," Dorn snapped and transfer the rope from the tree to the horse's collar. The reply forming on Anqi's tongue would’ve led to a heated argument, he was certain of it, so he kept his mouth shut and made his way back to the edge of the sinkhole.

 

“You can get on the coffer now, Knobber! The… cavalry's arrived.”

 

With the horse pulling the rope, the halfling and the gold reached the top in mere seconds. The minuscule cleric thanked Dorn, who scoffed once more and, before Anqi could protest, picked up the chest and walked away, leaving the chestnut mare behind.

 

“That was uncharacteristically kind of him,” Knobber said cheerfully.

 

“I wouldn’t say that… Listen, would you do me a favour and take the horse back?” Anqi scratched his left palm, his skin feeling clammy under the touch.

 

“Why certainly! But is there anything wrong? You look rather pale.”

 

Anqi shook his head and sidestepped the horse. “Just a little thirsty, that’s all. I’ll meet you back at the camp with some mead ready,” he said and left Knobber to deal with the animal. He made his way through a sparse grove of young trees that must have grown after the town had been destroyed. Here and there protruded fragments of collapsed stone walls, but those who knew nothing of the place could have suspected it had once been a busy settlement. It was the eerie silence that made the area seem dead, Anqi decided as he trod upon the pristine underbrush, the sounds of his light footsteps lost in the moss. There were no night birds singing, and there was no sign of animals. Even the fire glowing among the trees ahead seemed stifled. He paused to settle down his breathing and wipe the sweat off his face, hoping his colour had returned to his cheeks; just because Dorn knew of his weakness, it didn’t mean he’d allow the others to see him so shaken up. As it turned out, both Vensys and Brammin were nowhere to be found while Cheeks was busy trying to convince Dorn to share a drink with him, which the half-orc was adamantly refusing.

   

“I said begone, halfwit. If you need to thank me, your broken words will do—I don’t need to taste your spit as well,” Dorn said, shoving a large sheepskin back towards the giant. The refusal got Cheeks down, but when he saw Anqi, his face brightened the way a child’s would on their birthday. He jumped to his feet—an impressive stunt considering his weight—and rushed at the rogue.

 

“Elf-man save Cheeks life. Drink good wine, friend. Drink!” he said shoving the sheepskin at Anqi's face.

 

“That’s alright, big fellow,” Anqi said, sidestepping the giant. He fished out his own skin from the bag on his left hip—he too did not want to taste Cheeks' spit—and sat cross-legged close to the fire. “I’ve got my own drink, but we can have a toast together. Alright?”

 

Cheeks furrowed his brow, mulling the words over, then smiled widely and nodded. “Drink together. Friends save Cheeks. Cheeks happy and thanking!”

 

They made the toast twice, but Dorn, who was sitting a few paces away and drinking his own bitter black ale, never bothered to join in. Anqi left him to brood as he enjoyed his own excellent Evermead, which tasted just as good when indulging the slow-witted giant as any other time. Knobber arrived a short while later carrying a kettle full of river water and a sackful of ingredients. He placed the pot on the fire to boil, and before he got to work on his stew, he was treated to a sip of Anqi’s sweet alcohol.

 

“It’s really much better than any ale I have ever tasted,” he said with a resolute nod. Anqi cracked a grin at that.

 

“That’s a hundred fifty-two against forty and one,” he noted proudly.

 

Knobber gave him a queer look as he returned the skin. “What’s that about?”

 

“Just a little bet I have with Master. He claims ale is the best beverage, while I’m a mead-man myself. I’ve been conducting a vote every since our first disagreement on the matter. Losing so far, but one day I’ll prove him wrong.” Knobber chuckled at that, and then, in a few smooth motions of a dandy fire-imbued dagger he pulled out of his travel bag, peeled a carrot and chucked it already steaming into the pot with a splash. Anqi’s stomach gurgled, so he produced out his own, perfectly normal throwing blade and grabbed a parsnip from the sack to help speed the process along.

 

“You should ask Mistress Vensys when she returns; I think she might prefer mead as well.”

 

Anqi scoffed. “I don’t think she’d care enough about a lowly servant’s silly bet; neither she nor Brammin seems to like me very much.”

   

“You helped save their…” The halfling looked at Cheeks who was engrossed in picking dirt from under his nails with his teeth. “Ward?” he said cringing with distaste. Anqi shrugged and threw the parsnip into the pot. Knobber tossed an onion in and continued, disheartened. “It’s me they hate. When I brought Chestnut back to the wagon, I overheard them talking about a big reward, but as soon as they saw me, they stopped and glared until I left. I reckon that bonus you japed about earlier will go to you, while I will be sent packing once we return to the city. Oh well, at least I’ve probably earned enough to get by for a while. How much do you think our shares are going to be?”

 

The mention of a reward gave Anqi pause—he’d met a few greedy men in his time, and Brammin was just as likely as any of the misers to give away his gold for a simple favour. Then again, his wife did seem distressed when her ‘boy’ was hurt. Perhaps underneath her cold exterior beat a good heart after all. It made a lot of sense, but the feel of it was all wrong, and throughout the years he’d learned to trust his gut. He noticed Knobber watching him expectantly, so he pushed the thought about the strange pair aside for the moment. It was still not the time to abandon their charade, so instead of worrying about the dwarf, he considered the halfling’s question. “We’ve got four coffers you lot filled by midday and three and a half from tonight. Considering the sheer amount of the treasure and the type of gemstones the late lord had collected, I’d say… at least twenty-five to thirty thousand each.”

 

Knobber’s eyes grew larger than the onion that slipped from his fingers. “T-thirty!? That’s… By Cyrrollalee, that’s incredible!”

 

“Hear, hear! To the avaricious old Lord Ironcloak. May his ghostly mug find peace in whatever Hell he’s rotting,” Anqi made the toast and took a swig, then let Knobber have one as well.

   

“Thirty thousand,” Knobber repeated. He picked up the dropped onion and stared at it as if it were the most glorious thing he'd ever seen. Anqi relieved him of the vegetable and finished peeling it. The water was starting to boil, and there was still no sight of the rabbits the she-elf had killed at dawn, nor the seasoning that made the whole dish a mouth-watering masterpiece. He shook the halfling by his shoulder to hurry him up. The tiny cleric snapped his head towards him as if awoken from a dream.

 

“You alright there? Shouldn’t we add the meat or…?”

 

“With thirty thousand I could finally make my dream come true!” Knober ignored him and snapped both fingers, smiling like a madman. Cheeks turned away from his nails long enough to give the halfling a confused look, but then flinched as soon as a flood of words started spilling from the halfling’s mouth. “You may not know this about me, but despite being a cleric of Cyrrollalee, which I’ve become for my sweet mother’s sake, ever since I was a wee lad I’ve had this dream, this desire, to share my two passions with the whole world: my love of cooking, and the less known, but one even dearer to my heart, the passion of fixing shoes. Yes, I know it’s quite strange for a halfling to be interested in shoes, but my father’s best friend was a Tethyrian shoemaker, and I used to watch him for hours in his shop when he was working with the leather as if it were the easiest and the most fun thing to do, always putting in personal touches while making sure the shoes were sturdy and comfortable. It was like magic to my young, impressionable mind, and soon after I began dreaming of one day opening my own workshop. But around my twenties, I discovered I was quite skilled in the kitchen after I had to fill in for my sick mother at the Snapfinger family reunion feast. All the aunties and grannies praised me for my sense of taste, and the way I knew right away which ingredient went well with what. Soon after they started fighting over who’d get to borrow me for their family dinners, and my time for practising the craft of shoemaking grew terribly short. I love my family very much, but I knew that if I stayed home, I would never be able to grow, to improve. That’s why I left on a journey to broaden my horizons, armed with my skills, my faith and the gift from my second cousin’s great grandpa, who back in his day was quite a famous thief: this here dagger, that can be as cold or hot as you want it. Truddy Hotlock, they used to call him. With this little wonder, he would melt any old lock and was probably half the reason his side of the family got so wealthy in the first place. I have no taste for criminal activities, no offence to your own profession, but I was able to apply the magic of the dagger to my own needs, and thus I present to you: the Cooker, a cook’s dream come true!” The halfling stuck the flaming dagger into the water, which bubbled instantly and released a great cloud of steam in their faces.

 

Anqi fanned the hot air away with dismay. “That’s a neat little trick. Now, about the rabbit stew…?”

 

“Yes, the rabbit stew! My great-auntie Rolanda’s secret recipe. Out of the entire family, she entrusted it only to me. One day I will share its wonderful taste with everyone who’ll be lucky to encounter my Wonder Wagon. Oh, that’s right! I haven’t explained my dream yet!”

 

“It’s alright, I’m sure it can wait—”

 

“‘Knobber’s Wandering Wonder Wagon: Bringing great food and shoemaking services to a village near you!’. That will be my slogan. I’ll get a mule or two to pull my custom-designed and, most importantly, mobile workshop-slash-kitchen. That way, I’ll make sure the Snapfinger recipes will be known and loved by all the hungry people I meet on the road, and while the food’s stewing, I’ll help out those who need their heels fixed or the soles replaced. What do you think? Ingenious, isn’t it?”

   

“What I think is that you should finish _this_ stew and feed six people before boasting about feeding the entire world,” Anqi said, his patience all but exhausted, then slid the onion he’d been stabbing during Knobber’s monologue off his blade and into the pot. The halfling gasped, his face red like a tomato.

 

“Oh! Oh, dear me, I’m so sorry. These fantasies of mine—they just get me so excited, you see,” he said sheepishly, then finally pulled out two fat rabbits from the bag and began skinning them, unperturbed by the blood or their dead glossy eyes.

 

“That’s alright. Anyone would get excited by that amount of gold,” Anqi said, relief washing over him, his stomach gurgling ever louder in anticipation.

 

“Anyone with enough wit would know that gold, especially in the hands of naive fools, is a robbery waiting to happen,” Dorn growled, as he finally moved from his spot to sit closer to the fire. He settled next to Anqi and glanced inside the cooking pot with disapproval. “You’ve been prattling along for so long I was expecting the food to be at least halfway done. Another sign of foolishness—keeping a hungry half-orc waiting.” Anqi noticed Dorn’s sheepskin was empty, so, hoping to extend an olive branch, offered his own. To his surprise, his partner took it. “Disgusting,” Dorn said, wincing, then tossed it back in his lap.

 

“I’m not a fool,” Knobber protested hesitantly. “As soon as we get to Alaghôn, I’ll make sure to go to one of the great merchant families and invest my gold with them.”

 

Anqi quirked his eyebrow at Dorn and cocked his head towards the halfling. “Isn’t that clever, Master? Maybe we should do the same.”

 

“My gold stays with me—you do with your share what you will. I care not,” he snapped.  

 

“Well bless me beard! That's the first time ever I met a servant so pampered by his master,” said Brammin, emerging from the grove, his wife trailing close behind. Her yellow eyes swept over them, her piercing gaze pausing on Anqi before settling on Cheeks. She sat by the giant's side, while the dwarf remained standing, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his axe at his hip. It looked so matter-of-fact, that Anqi picked up on it immediately. He nudged Dorn’s leg lightly with his knee to make sure he noticed it as well, but his partner was ahead of him, his posture shifting ever so slightly to prepare for an eventual attack. Former companions had often accused Anqi and Dorn of a few shortcomings in the past: rudeness, mistrust and malice chief among them, but inattention had never been one of these supposed flaws. The dwarf showed no immediate signs of physical hostility for the moment, but his eyes were fixed on Anqi as if trying to measure his reaction to his provocative words. “Giving him superior weapons, allowing him an even share of gold, arguing in his honour? Correct me if I’m wrong, but to me, ye seem a little too close to be master and servant. Unless there is something I don’t know that makes a back-talking little pissant like this ‘Adrian’ special.”

 

In the blink of an eye, Dorn was towering over Brammin, his hand on his sword's hilt ready to unleash his fury. Both Knobber and Cheeks jumped, but not Vensys. She was as still as a statue as if she had known what was going to happen, watching Anqi, keeping one arm behind the giant’s back and the other behind her own. The rogue had an idea about what she could be hiding there.

 

“Careful, dwarf, before you say another ill-considered word about my companion. How we conduct ourselves is no business of yours.”

 

For a tense moment, Anqi was certain Brammin would take the bait and end up getting himself killed, but the nasty grimace he wore beneath his bushy moustache transformed into a wide grin, and he burst out laughing. He slapped Cheeks on the back, urging him to join in. The giant did as he was bid despite having no clue what he was supposed to find amusing. “Be calm, lad, I apologise. I’m just a grumpy, old cheapskate, and ye saying ye’d share with yer boy got me blood boiling, nothing more.” He patted the chuckling giant on the back a few times more but never moved his other hand off his axe. “What’s this brewing in that pot o’yers? I’m so hungry I could eat a horse.”

 

“I-It’s rabbit stew,” Knobber said, watching Brammin warily. Dorn was still rigid by Anqi’s side, and Vensys never changed her position nor looked away.

 

“Aye, very good, laddie, very good! Pass me a skin, there, ye biggun, let’s drink to our successful looting!” Cheeks relinquished his sheepskin to the dwarf who took a sloppy swig, pouring more wine down his beard than into his mouth. That didn’t stop him from letting out a huge belch afterwards. He then frowned at Dorn and waved at him dismissively. “Come now, no need to be so tense. It’s like ye westerners to be so stiff about everything.”

 

“We’re from the north, don't you remember?” Anqi said coolly, spotting the bait and repeating the lie he’d told the dwarf when they first met. His eyes shifted between the married couple, watching for their reactions. Vensys gave him nothing, while Brammin furrowed his brow, then scoffed and shrugged as if without a care.

 

“Are ye now? I must’ve forgotten; in our line of work, we meet all sorts of queer folk from all over. Even an ill-matched pair like you isn’t that uncommon,” he said in a casual tone, as if he was gossiping with friends he’d not seen in a while, and not a pair of well-armed, skilled and dangerous strangers. “Actually, now that I think about it, I heard talk a while back about some half-elf criminal from the west travelling with a witless brute of a half-orc. Terror of the Sword Coast, he was called, or something in that manner. Supposedly he was quick on his feet and skilled at wielding two swords.”

 

Anqi wanted to smile at another poorly cast bait but kept his face neutral. The dwarf did have a good eye spotting combat prowess, and it had been Anqi's mistake to show him his capabilities. On the other hand, subterfuge was not one of Brammin's fortes, and whatever edge he thought he had over Anqi and Dorn was growing duller with every word he said. He shrugged. “Never heard of him.”

 

“Oh! I have,” Knobber interjected, sticking his dagger back into its scabbard and snapping his fingers as he elaborated: “My friend’s cousin’s wife’s brother-in-law's son met him during Caelar Argent’s crusade over two years ago. They called him the _Scourge_ of the Sword Coast—not Terror. I heard he turned out to be a traitorous snake who not only boasted about being the God of Murder’s son but ended up killing the daughter of one of the Baldur’s Gate’s lords. He later went on to wreak havoc in Tethyr during the Bhaalspawn War. Some say he'd snuck into the Queen's chamber and assaulted her, which is why she'd set such a high bounty on  him!"

 

Anqi noted with disappointment the brand of vicious excitement he so often heard coming from gossips in Knobber's voice. It pained him, but in his heart, he knew he had to let go of the little man whose company he'd enjoyed the past few days.

 

"You're wrong," Vensys broke her silence but her eyes remained fixed on Anqi. "It was the Butcher of the Barrow who raped the Queen after he'd grown bored with the Bhaalspawn. The Scourge was nothing more than a whore he manipulated to gain power and, whenever it struck his fancy, used for pleasure. Those who survived the siege of Saradush swore they could hear the Bhaalspawn and his true _master_ coupling among the bodies of the slain. They said it was akin to a hog squealing when slaughtered."

 

Vensys' lips curled into a vicious smile, but Anqi was more concerned about his partner's reaction. As if feigning interest in what his master had to say, he looked over to Dorn and was relieved that his tightly locked jaw was the only sign of his fury. Anqi wanted to kiss him for that, knowing just how much it cost Dorn to pretend the she-elf's lies didn't bother him instead of tearing her pointy-faced head off.

 

"I've never heard that tale before! Is it true they drank blood and made sacrifices to Bhaal?" Knobber asked eagerly.

 

"Perhaps. People like that are bound to do all sorts of depraved things."

 

"People? More like merciless monsters!" The halfling shuddered as if to shake off the filth he'd been subjected to. "That said, I don’t understand how you could even compare a kind person like Adrian to someone horrid like that, Master Brammin. He's as gentle as they go, that much I know for certain.”

 

“If only ye knew as much about healing as ye know about flapping those gums, ye two-bit cleric.” Brammin pointed a stubby finger at the halfling, who blushed and failed to stammer out a response. “Anyhow, I guess, I don’t know what I’m talking about, confusing our clever handyman from the _north_ with a manslaughtering demigod from the Sword Coast.”

 

“I suppose it’s because half-elves must all look alike to you,” Anqi said pleasantly. The dwarf guffawed, his merry facade never dropping for a second, but then Anqi saw it. All the farmers and merchants talking about the rain had agreed that the summer months would be quite cool this year. So far they had been right, and tonight was no exception. And yet the dwarf's forehead was drenched with sweat.

 

_You’ve played your hand, but it’s a bust_ , Anqi thought, but continued the ruse, smiling at the dwarf—he still needed a moment to communicate his intentions to his partner. “If only I were half as fearsome, we wouldn’t have to soil ourselves digging after treasures in the mud. We'd be out there burning towns, slaying the innocent and bathing in the blood of our enemies. Isn’t that right, Master?”

 

Dorn's stony face showed no sign of acknowledging the jape. The rogue had to press his knee into his leg to make his partner look his way and see the hidden signal. Anqi detected a flicker of defiance when Dorn noticed the three casually curled up fingers of the half-elf's left hand resting on his knee, but apart from an angry frown, he didn't react. Anqi hoped that meant Dorn was considering it, instead of ignoring his message.

 

Their personal code was a simplified version of the Drow Sign Language they had picked up while infiltrating Ust Natha mixed with the basic signals of the Shadow Thieves, and the meaning of Anqi’s gesture was: ‘stay your weapon’. He then quickly tapped twice with his thumb, which meant ‘strategy’. If Brammin believed they were the highly sought-after criminals from the Sword Coast, then it was only a matter of time until his greedy nature urged him to capture or kill them for their substantial bounty. A reasonable person in his situation would pretend not to recognise them, depart with his skin intact and then sell the information to someone more capable of bringing the two dangerous fugitives down. If it were Anqi, he would simply poison them and maintain distance while they grew weaker and died. In fact, that was exactly what he was going to do.

 

‘Night kill’ was Anqi’s final hand signal. A quick cut of the throat or Kitthix’s venomous bite would be enough for the dwarf and the she-elf, and the other two they’d knock out and tie to a tree. Cheeks would free himself with ease once he regained consciousness, but by then he and Dorn would’ve been long gone. They’d leave them a bag of gold for the trouble, and ride for the city. And even if Knobber wanted to locate them afterwards, he would never find a servant named Adrian—Anqi had never made the mistake of using the same alias twice. Yes, the idea was subtle and simple, just how he liked it.

 

Yet for every sneaky plan Anqi concocted, Dorn always had a more straightforward alternative at the ready; instead of consent, Dorn gave him his own secret message: he extended two forefingers around the hilt of the Abyssal Blade, then bent them. Originally signifying an order to advance, the fallen blackguard had put a personal spin on the meaning over the years: ‘Kill them all and have done with it."

 

Anqi could only glower in frustration at the lack of finesse but hardly wished to argue with the desire to slaughter the couple where they sat. And although he wanted to spare Cheeks and Knobber, the tension in Dorn's muscles told him there was no more time to discuss the matter. He could do nothing but flick his finger in assent.

 

The first thing to perish was the unfinished stew. Dorn kicked the kettle towards Brammin’s group. Vensys’ elven reflexes helped her to avoid the boiling contents spilling over, but the dwarf and his giant boy weren’t as lucky; the hot liquid splashed onto their laps and faces, causing them to scramble away in panic. “Get him! Get the bloody Bhaalspawn!” the dwarf roared over Cheek’s pained screams.

 

“You mongrel scum!” the she-elf cried and revealed the slim hunting knife she’d been hiding behind her back. Anqi didn't wait to see what she was planning to do with it. As Dorn’s greatsword swooshed after his two opponents to Anqi's left, the rogue stuck his foot in the smoking fire and kicked the charred branches and hot soil into Vensys’ face. She hissed and raised her arm to protect herself. Lightning quick, he rolled onto his back and kicked himself up to a standing position in one smooth motion, then launched himself at Vensys. Her hunter’s reflexes helped her once again, and she skipped back in time to avoid his cross-slash, but her impaired vision caused her to miss the parry. Anqi was counting on it. His follow-up attack slipped past her blade unobstructed and took off her arm in one, clean slice. The woman stifled her gasp. She tried to back away once again but lost her footing among the roots of a nearby tree and landed hard on her back. Her pale face was tearstained from attempting to wipe the ash and cinders away. With her blood spraying all over from her stump, she was a right mess.

 

“Mercy, please,” she moaned,  extending her remaining hand in surrender.

 

“I wonder: will you squeal like a hog when _I_ slaughter _you_?” Anqi said coldly and sunk the Celestial Fury into her heart, the electric charge from the blade causing her body to twitch violently. Proud until the end, she refused to make a sound before going still. He yanked the sword back and flicked the blood off before pulling her weapon out from her amputated arm. There was nothing remarkable about the knife, but the unique, elongated blade would make a good enough addition to his collection. He stuffed it into his belt behind his back, then turned to check on the rest of the fight.

 

The fire was gone, the scattered pieces of wood smouldering all over the campsite, but the waning moon rising in the inky sky shed enough light to illuminate the signs of the bloodbath. Right where he’d sat drinking from his sheepskin and picking at his nails, Cheeks laid headless. His lifeblood was pooling around his enormous body, staining the grass black as did the piss around his crotch area. Anqi didn’t bother to look for his head and gave the body a wide berth to avoid the worst of the smell. He stopped a  short walk away from a cluster of older oaks that must have survived the flood. There, Dorn had Brammin pinned to a trunk, the dwarf's axe lying just out of reach, and the tip of the Abyssal Blade buried in his mailed chest like a hot knife in butter. It missed his heart by a few centimetres, but Anqi knew it was exactly where Dorn had wished to send it. He watched and listened.

 

“A ‘witless brute’, isn't that what you called me?” Dorn asked with false-courtesy, then twisted his sword. Brammin tried to scream, but all that came out of his mouth was a gurgle and a spout of blood. “I couldn't hear you. How about you say that again," the fallen blackguard said and gave the blade another sharp twist. This time a low wail escaped from Brammin's bloody lips. Dorn snarled in disgust. "Know this, dwarf: before I send you to Hell, I will make sure you know my name, so that it may haunt you for all eternity. I am Dorn Il-Khan, Butcher of the Barrow, Slayer of the Heavenly Hordes. To die by my hand is an honour wretched gnats like you scarcely deserve.”

 

With the last of his strength, Brammin grabbed Dorn's dimly smouldering blade with both hands and spat, a dark red globule spattering on the half-orc’s battle-worn steel greaves. Dorn bared his teeth and, in a fit of rage, yanked the blade out, swung it overhead, and then dropped it in a savage arc, cleaving the dwarf from shoulder to hip-bone with a wet _thunk_. The stout body exploded in a fountain of blood but Dorn used his mantle to shield himself. He removed his blade from the carcass, then headed back towards the camp where Anqi was waiting, his own swords already back in their scabbards.

 

“A bit of an overkill, even for the Butcher,” he said with more bite than he planned. Dorn gave him the evil eye, so Anqi cut to the chase. “Was there anything wrong with my plan, or were you that upset about the name-calling? This could’ve gone a lot cleaner, you know.”

 

“Hells take your ‘clean’,” Dorn snapped.

 

Anqi looked around the bloodsoaked campsite and muttered, “Evidently.”

 

“These curs weren’t worth a proper fight nor the waste of time sneaking about at night. Not even my blade found their deaths satisfying. And there is still one more left, but I will leave your little friend to you.”

 

Knobber had run the moment the skirmish began, and a quick scan of the surrounding area showed Anqi the path he’d taken. The broken branches and haphazard tracks led back towards the underground vault. The half-elf shook his head. “Inept till the end. If he had gone towards the horses, he might have had a better chance.”

 

“The halfling's fate was sealed the moment he joined the dwarf in his insults. Now quit your stalling,” Dorn ordered, and when Anqi didn’t move right away, he grabbed his arm impatiently. “I said finish it unless you want me to do it—messily—while you go and prepare the wagon.” The idea of handling the horses made Anqi wince, but he didn’t really want to chase after the harmless halfling either. His partner must have seen his reluctance. He caught Anqi’s chin and lifted his face to get a better read on him. “What happened to your bloodlust? Even that mewling child, Skie, did not make you blink twice, but somehow this stranger has turned you soft?”

 

Anqi felt a pang of guilt at the memory of the unfortunate Silvershield girl and tried to move away from Dorn but his steel grip kept him in place. “I save my bloodlust for my enemies. Go back and see what happened to the she-elf, if you doubt it,” he said through clenched teeth.

   

“The halfling's tongue has made him our enemy. We cannot allow false gossip about us to spread. He dies."

 

"Are you that afraid of a few absurd tales? I thought you liked being called 'a merciless monster'," Anqi snapped before he could stop himself. He would pay for that, he knew. Dorn's huge hand moved from his chin to his neck and held him.

 

"Be very, very careful, thief, or you'll find out how merciless I can be," his partner said in a harsh undertone. The black pits of Dorn’s eyes gleamed in the moonlight, wicked and cruel. A shiver crept up Anqi’s spine, his mouth going dry.

 

“I already know,” he whispered, remembering the countless bodies Dorn had left in his wake. Be they monstrous or small, powerful or weak, snarling curses or begging to live, if they opposed him, his Butcher had slain them all the same.

 

“No, you don't," Dorn stated, his voice sombre. "But if you keep delaying the inevitable, you will.” Having made his wish clear, his partner released him. He wiped the blood off his sword on Cheek’s tunic before sheathing it, then turned towards the wagon. “Make it quick. I’ve no desire to tarry among corpses,” he added before disappearing into the trees.

 

Anqi bit back a curse. _He's right. I have to do it_ , he thought, his gut twisting. _I owe him this much._ His footsteps heavy with the growing guilt, he followed Knobber’s tracks until they stopped right around the sinkhole. Anqi knew what must have happened before he even looked down the slope. Soaking wet and covered in mud, the halfling laid face up with his right arm twisted at an unnatural angle. For a second, Anqi considered leaving him there but then, with a flick of his thumb, detached Kitthix from his bandana. He whispered the command word and tossed her down the hole. The black figurine transformed in midair, and a giant green spider landed gracefully by Knobber’s side. Following Anqi’s mental directions, she climbed on top of the small body and began wrapping him in her web. Just then, the halfling awoke and, upon seeing the creature, whimpered in fear and started thrashing underneath it.

 

“Stop struggling, Knobber! Kitthix is there to help get you out,” Anqi said calmly, then made his spider continue wrapping him up. “It looks like your arm’s broken, so bear with it for a little longer.”

 

“W-Why are you doing this!? You… I saw you kill Vensys!”

 

“She was going to attack me—I had to defend myself,” Anqi explained patiently. “And I would never leave you to die in there.” The halfling kept trembling, but the answer seemed to calm him down enough to make the task of getting him out a quick affair. After she had him secured in her web, Kitthix climbed back and helped Anqi to pull Knobber up. Right as the halfling made it over the slippery edge, the spider's time on the material plane was up, and she changed back into a figurine. Anqi pinned her back on his bandana and then yanked the webbed up cleric upright. Gently, he held his shivering body close to him with one hand tangled in his muddied mantle’s folds, while he slid the other behind his back to grasp Vensys’ knife. “There now, you’re alright.”

 

Knobber’s wide eyes filled with tears, and when he spoke his teeth chattered. “I don’t understand. What happened back there? We were having a drink and a laugh, and then your Master suddenly—oh, save me, Cyrrollalee—he just swung that big sword, and Cheeks’ head just—it flew! Oh, gods!”

 

Anqi wrapped his arm around the halfling’s head, kneading his fingers through his tangled hair to calm him. “I know, friend. I know.”

 

“But why?”

 

“Brammin was going to sell us out because he figured out who Master and I really are. And now you know it too.” _And you both dared to offend my partner's delicate ego_ , he thought bitterly.

 

Knobber furrowed his brow and stared at him in mute disbelief until the meaning behind Anqi’s words dawned on him. “No!” He was shaking his head. “No, I don’t know who you are! You’re just Adrian, right? And your master is just Master.”

 

Anqi tightened the grip on Knobber's shaggy head to keep him still. “You do know.”

 

“No, please!” Tears streamed down Knobber’s pale face, leaving wide streaks on his dirty cheeks. In a last-ditch effort, he tried to wrestle free, but the spider web was too tough to break and Anqi’s hold too strong to wriggle away. “I won’t say anything, I swear!”

 

“I believe you,” the half-elf said softly and pressed the halfling’s face into his torso to muffle his cries. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dorn standing among the trees with the horse wagon behind him. He was holding up a torch, watching him, waiting.

 

Wishing it didn’t have to be this way, Anqi did what was expected of him.

 

When the slim blade slipped between his ribs, the halfling flinched, and a quiet moan escaped his lips along with a mouthful of blood. The rogue yanked him away in time to keep it off his leather jerkin, and then gently lowered the dying man into the mud. Staring down at his frightened face, he slowly pulled the knife out, killing him in the process. He examined the red blade, then threw it down the sinkhole. Knobber’s big, dead blue eyes were fixed on him as he knelt next to him and gave the halfling's hair a final stroke. He then helped himself to his magical dagger. Its weight was wrong and the hilt was too short for him. _It’s not made for my hands_ , he thought but slipped it into his chest holster nonetheless. “I’ll take good care of your Cooker and the recipe you gave me. If one day I make a stew half-as-good as yours, I’ll be sure to remember you and your aunt Rolanda. It really was the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

 

There came no reply. For a fleeting moment, Anqi considered fishing out his old twisted rod of resurrection from the bag he wore on his right hip and using its last charge on the unfortunate halfling. Then he remembered Sarevok and dismissed the notion; no good had ever come from taking pity on dead wretches, he knew that all too well. With a final moment of silence, he closed Knobber’s eyes, rose, wiped his hands on his baggy pants, and, without looking back, made his way to his partner.

 

The chestnut mare and her spotted grey counterpart tossed their heads and swished their tails at his approach. Anqi froze. “They smell the blood, nothing more,” Dorn explained impatiently, then motioned to the wagon. “Get in with the coffers and let us be off from this place.”

 

Anqi watched the horses anxiously, as he went around the back of the wagon and climbed on. He sat as far away from the animals as he could, trying to ignore the nervous way they whickered and flicked their ears towards him. Whether it was the blood or something else about him that agitated them, he had no wish to be trampled like when he was a child. Invaluable to them in their current situation or not, he did not trust these beasts any more than the old draft horse back in Candlekeep, and Dorn would have to deal with them on his own.

 

That his partner didn’t seem to mind. Once Anqi was settled, he whistled at the mares, and as he led them carefully between the trees and over protruding roots, they grew more accustomed to their new master and stilled their nervous twitches. While Dorn was focused on his task, Anqi closed his eyes and concentrated on quelling his grudges and compartmentalising his guilt about what had just transpired. The process was no more complicated than reminding himself of what truly mattered to him, and by now, having had over two years of practice at leaving dead bodies in his wake, it took him no more than a couple minutes.

 

Chasing away the lingering memories of dead comrades, he was free to consider the unexpected amount of gold they had come to acquire. Approximately hundred fifty thousand gold pieces would help him finalise the deal his liaison had set up for him. If everything went well, very soon he would be able to sign a negotiable two-year contract to ferry a young but prominent Alaghonian merchant’s goods across the sea to Westgate and Saerloon, but also farther east to Messemprar, Skuld or Bezantur in a ship of his own. The money they were about to bring to the table along with the rest of the Ironcloak's treasures and the profits from the work would all go into buying out the vessel and eventually becoming independent. With over thrice the amount he was asked to supply as his first downpayment, that goal was now much closer than ever before.

 

His heart raced as he imagined sailing on his own ship, just like it did when he was ten. Late at night, when Candlekeep slept, he used to sneak out to lie on the roof of the inn and listen to the waves crashing against the rocks below the fortress’ steep cliffside. He would spend hours looking for the constellations he’d read about during his astronomy lessons, dreaming of being out there on the sea like the characters from his favourite adventure books. The stars he spied above the canopy overhead were as bright as they used to be back then, so he leaned against one of the coffers and tried to enjoy the view of the twinkling spray across the sky, charting his way across the Inner Sea in his mind's eye. His fingertips found the Cooker—unlike when wielded by its former owner, it was cold to the touch—and he picked at the tiny nicks in the worn out leather wrapped around the dagger’s wooden hilt until the night chill and the exhaustion from the day’s work finally overcame him. He closed his eye wishing for a good dream, but instead of the deep blue waves he yearned for, he saw beasts lurking in a pool of blood and faces of innocents drowning in darkness.

  



	2. The Travellers' Many Troubles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having departed the blood-spattered camp in a gloomy mood, Dorn takes it upon himself to guide the treasure-laden wagon out of the forest. Find out what awaits him and his belligerent companion on the road!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I've added translations to words in Drowic and Alzhedo above the text. Hope that helps! Please enjoy~
> 
> *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

As their wagon swayed among the trees, he listened to the sounds of the forest. In the daytime, the monotonous green around him dulled his senses, but at night, the woods transformed into a different entity altogether. There were whispers of violence in the underbrush and the rustling of killers skulking in the canopy. Every so often a pair of glowing eyes would approach the dirt path to observe the strange, creaking creature rolling through their domain, then retreat, frightened of the steady hoofbeat and the torchlight, wisely fleeing from a much dangerous predator than them. Dorn Il-Khan felt at home here, or as close to home as he could find; a beast among beasts, unrivalled and undisturbed. Calm.

 

"Stop!"

 

Dorn hurled himself off the wagon. His sword in hand, he spun to face the enemy that had somehow snuck up on him. But there was no one there.

 

"No," the voice mumbled. Growling low in his throat, Dorn sheathed his blade as he pulled the whickering horses to a stop, then climbed back onto the wagon. His head pressed against one of the coffers, Anqi was tossing in his sleep and muttering under his breath. His calloused, capable hands were clenched over his chest as if he was grappling with some imaginary creature, and his skin was drenched in sweat. Though Dorn could see well without any light, he yanked the torch out of its holder and brought it over to examine Anqi's face. Dark crust gathered in the grooves on his cheek, snaking from underneath his bandana and running down to his jawline and over his mouth. Clicking his tongue, Dorn pulled off his gauntlet and slipped a finger underneath the fabric.

 

“No!” Anqi yelled and thrashed like he was fighting for his life. Dorn snatched his arms and pushed himself against the smaller man to stifle his fit of panic. “What!? I… _Iblith!_ ,” the half-elf cursed under his breath when he realised where he was. “I’m sorry, Blood, it was just a dream. You can let go now.”

 

“Your hand,” the half-orc said and squeezed his companion’s wrist.

 

“Ah, right.” Anqi unclenched his fist and let the halfling’s dagger he had instinctively torn out of its holster slip safely into Dorn's armoured hand. Only then did Dorn release Anqi so he could massage his arm. His breath haggard and skin pallid in the moonlight, the half-orc had not seen his companion this worn out in months. He returned the dagger and then offered Anqi a skin of water. While he was attempting to drain half of it in one go, Dorn looked through his medicine pouch and produced a tiny flask of golden liquid.

 

“Here,” he pressed it into Anqi's hand, then shifted to sit back on the bench in front and replaced the torch in its holder. The chestnut mare whinnied as he urged her on with a snap of reins. His stomach growled. It had been growing increasingly louder ever since they departed the bloodsoaked camp, not nearly satisfied by the dry rations they had brought along for the trip to Ironcloak’s vault, so he saw no reason to dawdle in the dark. He was aiming to reach the inn at the crossroads not too far off the edge of the wood before dawn.

 

“Lemon balm again? I think I’ve had enough sleep for now,” Anqi said, sniffing the flask, still groggy from his four-hour nap.

 

“It’ll be my turn after we get to the inn. Make sure you’re rested by then.”

 

“Got it.”

 

Anqi sounded as cocky as usual, but this was nothing but a front. Four years ago when they met, Dorn might’ve bought it, but he’d seen the act too many times to be fooled. Anqi was hiding something, and he had a feeling he knew what it was. “It’s been a while since you’ve had a nightmare. It’s not due to heavy conscience, I hope?”

 

Anqi snorted. “Please, when have I  _ever_ shown remorse? That’s right—I haven't! And what’s so strange about having a bad dream? Anyone can have one, even you.”

 

“Name one instance.”

 

Not a beat passed when Anqi said, “The night after we killed that wraith masquerading as Kryll.” Dorn sent him a warning look.

 

“I told you never to mention her again! I beheaded the traitorous harlot myself and there is nothing about her death I regret.”

 

Anqi shrugged. “I was just answering the question.”

 

“How about you ‘just’ be silent, then, before you spew more of your nonsense.” Anqi’s expression turned stony, just like it always did when he met his match in Dorn, and he shifted to face away from him. Although his companion was rarely idle, Dorn would sometimes catch him glowering at his swords when he sharpened them or staring at the fire, unflinching, when they were waiting for their food to cook. Keen, intense and focused, it was a look so much different than the wide-eyed eagerness he’d displayed when they first crossed paths, and one of the things Dorn found pleasing about the generally irksome rogue. What he did not like, however, was both his resurgent hesitation about killing and his vehement denial about it.

 

It had been in the early stages of their relationship when Dorn realised Anqi did not share the same exact passion for bloodlust as him, but his ruthless disregard for his enemies' lives had more than made up for it. Dorn had thought it was enough to see him through to the end of his quest for power, but he had been wrong. Anqi's sympathy for some of his allies was enough to derail him at times, and as he encountered more people, his goal to obtain Bhaal's power had become less and less important. There was no place for friendships at the top, that was plain, and it infuriated Dorn whenever one of his softer companions would attempt to sway him from his destiny. Anqi had only laughed it off, however, and assured Dorn he would not betray him because he valued him the most out of all his friends. And when the time to make his ultimate choice had finally come, in a cruel twist of irony, it was his devotion to Dorn which had made Anqi give up on the power they had been pursuing for so long. Afterwards, Dorn had blamed himself for months, blamed his one moment of weakness when he'd confessed to Anqi he feared to lose him once he'd become the new God of Murder. If only he had been stronger! If only he hadn't fallen into another trap of desire and helped Anqi hone his lust for power, then maybe their fate would have been different.

 

No, there was no point opening old wounds. Their ultimately pointless journey east was at an end, and soon they would head back to the Sword Coast. They would finally tie all the loose ends they had left behind, and make all who had dared to besmirch their names perish, starting with the Grand Duke of Baldur’s Gate: Entar Silvershield. It was that foolish dead girl’s pompous father who had cast suspicion over every one of Anqi’s comrades who had aided him in defeating Caelar Argent. Because of his accusations, Dorn had to flee the city before they strung him up next to the crusaders he had helped capture. Perhaps the man had lost his mind due to grief, but that would not dissuade Dorn from exacting vengeance upon him. If only he could have located the dagger Anqi had lost after slaying Skie, he could do to the father what his companion had done to the daughter. That way they could lock both of their souls inside the blade, making their revenge much sweeter. But the Soultaker had vanished without a trace so they would have to make do with their usual weapons of choice. It would still be months before they could even attempt the deed, but he saw it clearly in his mind’s eye: Anqi's face bathed in blood, his breathing hard, his good eye gleaming like a panther’s, his body poised and deadly.

 

His mouth suddenly dry, Dorn glanced back at Anqi, who was sulking in silence and twirling the halfling’s dagger, the softly glowing blade dancing between his deft fingers. Perhaps they could spend an extra night in Alaghôn before they arranged their journey west. It had been a while since they shared a bed or even a bedroll, the various roles Anqi had them play limiting the level of intimacy they could indulge in.  _The bloody charades must go as well_ , Dorn decided. No more hiding behind aliases, no more sneaking around like thieves in the night. He had allowed Anqi’s fondness for subterfuge to dictate their approach for far too long, but he would rectify his mistake; the Butcher and the Scourge had faced and slain demigods, archdemons, powerful warlocks and even prevailed against the Hordes of Hell and Heaven—taking on upstart bounty hunters or overzealous paladins would be like swatting gnats in comparison.

 

There was a buzzing around his right ear. When it ceased, Dorn struck his cheek and saw his fingers come away red from the blood the mosquito had sucked up from him or Anqi. The wood at night was a beast much to his liking, but the number of insects was most disagreeable no matter the time of day. He snapped the reins twice, eager to leave the forest behind. In the end, it could not compare to the harsh and deadly beauty of the snow-covered peaks and valleys of the Spine of the World. Perhaps one day, when they’ve spilt enough blood in the Sword Coast, he would take Anqi to visit the place that had shaped him into the man he was today, and maybe his companion too would rediscover the ruthlessness Dorn knew was still there, deep inside him. He was sure of it, and if dragging his half-elf rogue across kingdoms, seas and even continents could rekindle it, then it was what he was going to do.

 

The path ahead bent abruptly. Beyond it, the trees grew thinner, allowing Dorn to spot the lantern by the crossroads and the shape of a sizeable two-storied inn. He hurried the horses into a trot. Soon he passed under the inn’s uninspired signpost depicting two intersecting roads and turned the wagon into the yard. A brown boy no older than ten emerged from the stable, rubbing his eyes and yawning, a thin, frayed sheet wrapped around his slim shoulders and a small oil lamp in hand. Then he gasped.

 

“P-p-please, don’t kill me!” the boy yelped and backed away.

 

Dorn rolled his eyes and climbed off the wagon. He was used to children cowering at the sight of a half-orc in full-plate armour looming over them. Anqi hopped off as well and sauntered to the boy, a wide smile plastered on his scarred face. “Fear not, good lad. My friend has no intention of hurting you nor anyone else around. We’re just looking for a place to stay for the rest of the night and some food to go with it.”

 

The boy swallowed hard and glanced at Dorn, who busied himself with covering the back of the wagon with a tarp they'd brought with them, then squeaked, his Common tainted with the language of the Turami, “W-we’re full, m’lords. My apologies! T-there’s been an awful lot of people coming and going the past few days. Because of the Festival.”

 

“It’s alright, boy,” Anqi cut him off, then produced a handful of gold coins from his money satchel. “Here, take this to your masters, and tell them we’re fine staying out here, but we require food to warm ourselves. A stew or something like it will do. Go on.” Anqi pushed the money into the boy’s hand and watched his eyes grow in surprise with a grin. The kid nodded eagerly, his fear of Dorn apparently forgotten, and dashed past the horses and up the stone steps of the inn.

 

“The whelp deserved a backhand, not gold.”

 

Anqi gave Dorn a hard look, then shrugged. “We’ve got the coin to spare. Besides, he still might get it for waking up the owner at this hour,” he said, then moved to the back of the wagon and far away from the horses. The innkeeper emerged a few minutes later, dragging the boy by the ear, his flushed, balding head stuck low atop a thick, sweaty neck. The stout man saw Dorn and gave him a deep bow, forcing the child to do the same.

 

“My lords, I do apologise for my servant’s behaviour. He’s as thick as the bricks of my humble inn, so please pay his lack of manners no mind,” he said, a large, golden nose hoop twinkling in the torchlight with every nervous nod of his head. “Whatever Friti Cocorga can do for you this fine night, he shall do swiftly. And do forgive us; as the boy said, we are all full for the night, but I can have a place prepared for you in the inn’s main hall in no time.”

 

“That won’t be necessary. We’ll be warm out here with some blankets,” said Anqi, his voice pleasant for the most part, but there was an edge to it. An edge that often worked on people just as well as that of a blade under their throats. “Now get us what we require while we make ourselves comfortable.” He threw another coin at the innkeeper. The fat man caught it with both hands, then hastily retreated, bowing deeply as he went, barking directions at the boy in the mewling Turmic. A determined grimace on his face, the child guided the horse wagon to a spot beside the stable, then brought the mares inside to water and feed them. Meanwhile, Friti returned with two woollen blankets and a bottle of wine, insisting it was on the house, although Anqi's gold would more than have covered it. Dorn took a few gulps before handing it to Anqi—it was sour enough to be passable—then snatched the thick blanket and climbed on the back of the wagon. He unbuckled the strap of his sheath and propped the sword against one of the tarp-covered chests, then made himself comfortable beside it.

 

“You’ve been wearing that steel can all day. At least take off your boots and the chest piece,” Anqi grumbled as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand; from the way his face was screwed up, Dorn guessed his companion must've tasted the wine and hated it.

 

“We’re staying outside right next to two of the busiest roads in the region with Hells-only-knows who lurking inside the building, and you expect me to strip?”

 

Anqi’s stern, sulking mask cracked with a snort, which had not been Dorn’s intention whatsoever. The impertinent rogue shook his head and had the good sense to mask his grin by scratching his nose. He cleared his throat and then patted Dorn’s boot. “Just your armour. I’ve got you covered, Blood. Besides, who would dare try and rob a scar-faced half-orc with a big, scary sword like yours?”

 

Dorn wrinkled his nose at the usual pet name—after all these years, allowing another person to address him in such a familiar way still felt strange. “Fine,” was all he said, then undid the side straps of his chest plate, while Anqi did the same around his greaves. With a strong, practised yank, the rogue pulled the heavy, mud-covered boots off and let them fall to the ground with consecutive  _thuds_. The chilly, pre-dawn air made the skin of his feet crawl, but before Dorn could sneak them under the blanket, Anqi snatched his left leg and pulled up the tough woollen trousers to examine his shin. Or more precisely, the bite marks left by a spectral troll they had encountered on their way to the Ironcloak ruins two days ago.

 

“Good, it’s healing nicely.” Anqi decided, running his finger gently over Dorn's sweaty skin. He had come by the bite when their group was fending off a pack of common trolls. They had been unaware that one of them was undead and it jumped Dorn when he was finishing the rest of its friends. The wraith's end came soon after, but its bite had gone through Dorn's armour as if it were paper.

 

“It wouldn’t need healing in the first place if the halfling hadn't been so damn noisy,” Dorn said with a huff, then pulled back his leg. Anqi jumped on the wagon to assist him with the chest piece, which he then placed next to the sword. He wiped the sweat off his brow, then flinched when his knuckles went too far over the left side of his forehead. Dorn frowned. “You should worry about your own injuries. Your scab—when did it open again?”

 

Anqi waved his hand dismissively. “It can wait until we’re in the city,” he said. Dorn grunted, unconvinced. “Look, I promise I’ll let you have a proper look this time, alright?”

 

It was. By the time their food arrived, Dorn had emptied the wine bottle, which only helped to whet his appetite. The thick stew was hot and filling and had large pieces of beef, peas, carrots and potatoes swimming in the terribly spicy broth. After the first mouthful, Dorn regretted finishing his wine beforehand, but the slightly stale bread the innkeeper had provided helped tone down the dish. By the time it was gone, Dorn had found the meal pleasing.

 

Anqi has said as much to the stable boy when he came to collect the empty dishes, but after he'd gone, the half-elf cursed quietly. “I can’t believe I completely forgot about Knobber’s seasoning! Now it’s going to rot away, and I’ll never get his rabbit stew tasting right.”

 

“With or without it, I doubt your cooking can improve. Stick to roasting fish and rodents; something even you can’t botch,” Dorn said without scorn. The warm food inside his belly was making him drowsy, and the long day of scavenging, the short fight afterwards, and the nightly trek were finally beginning to take their toll on him.

 

“Now we’ll never know,” Anqi sighed, then left him to doze, while he jumped off, stretched and began setting up traps. Dorn watched him cover the first one with dirt but never made it past the second one before sleep descended on him.

 

*

 

He awoke to the clamour of stomping feet, horses trumpeting as they were being saddled, and carts being filled with luggage and bodies, as a large, boisterous group of travellers was departing from the inn. Their banter and laughter filled the air, grating on his nerves, and so was the midday sun as it glared down on him, turning his blanket into a steam room. Dorn tossed the woollen cloth away, irritated. He scratched his itching, scruffy chin, then slid off the wagon with a grunt. He threw the strap of his sword sheath over his head and grimaced at the unpleasant way it chafed his back under the sweat-stained cotton tunic. The dirt under his feet was pleasantly warm at least, so he took a few steps, avoiding the markings of the traps only he and Anqi knew and observed the nosy crowd’s departure. The gaudily-dressed travellers were climbing atop their horses, donkeys and flower-trimmed wagons, all the while belting out lewd and obnoxious songs. Only a few of them noticed the surly half-orc watching, but they chose to ignore him and soon went their merry way.

 

To his right, the stable boy was sweeping the stone steps, and when he saw Dorn, he waved at him and bowed, then went back to work smiling. Dorn's frown deepened.  _Impertinent whelp_ , he thought, shaking his head, then scrutinised the two roads stretching between the gently swaying, golden grain fields, and observed a few silhouettes in the distance coming his way from the south-west, and most likely heading north-east to Alaghôn, just like the circus that departed moments ago.

 

“They’re going to the Feast of the Moon,” Anqi’s voice came from behind. Dorn looked around, but his companion was nowhere to be found, which could only mean he had been climbing again. Upon the roof of the stable, the half-elf sat with his legs stretched out, his leather armour and shirt missing, bloody sunbathing without a care in the world. “Also known as the Festival of Lovers," the rogue continued unbidden. "I asked the innkeeper about it, and it looks like the city will be crowded until the day after Midsummer, at least. Friti says the revels last a couple days longer if the stores of alcohol and aphrodisiacs last. Friti says this year they very well might.”

 

“I care about what ‘Friti says’ as much as whatever these fools are off to do. Our business in Alaghôn has nothing to do with their debauchery. Anyway, why did you let me sleep this long? And for pity’s sake, get down from there and put something on, a padded shirt at the least. How do you mean to watch over the wagon when you're as good as naked?”

 

“I thought you could use a few more hours rest. And no need to fret, I used these,” Anqi said with a lazy smile and waved a handful of parchments at him. “I’ve been sitting on so many summoning scrolls, I’ve decided to make good use of them. Look behind you.”

 

Dorn did as he was bid, albeit with a strong desire to continue telling Anqi off. Two giant wolf-like creatures emerged from the field across the road, their intelligent eyes watching him intently. The stable boy shrieked when he saw them and ran inside the inn screaming. Snorting, Anqi whistled at the worgs, who disappeared into thin air before the bald innkeeper emerged, a bejewelled curved sword at the ready, his fat face red. Finding nothing to slay, he hit the boy over the head, and then, noticing Dorn’s gaze, hid the fancy weapon behind his back and offered profuse apologies in both Turmic and the common tongue, before heading back inside.

 

“Not very bright, that one, and Hells, does he sweat like a pig. It wasn’t even warm when he came out to ask if I needed breakfast, and he reeked worse than both pairs of our shoes put together.”

 

Dorn found he was in no mood for small talk. Without acknowledging the jab at their grovelling host, he crossed the yard back to the wagon and began putting on his admittedly stinky boots. That at least motivated the much too relaxed rogue to jump off his warm perch.

 

“It’s going to get hotter. Are you sure you need the full plate? We should still have that fire-resistant chainmail, it will keep some of the heat off,” Anqi said and began to root around one of his bags of holding, loudly banging weapons and pieces of armour stashed inside against one another.

 

“I believe you’d sold that in Arrabar, along with most of our remaining equipment, to raise funds for the information about the mirror. Not your brightest move, as it turned out, but I’ll blame that on your weakened condition back then,” Dorn reminded him with a hint of sarcasm.

 

Anqi opened his mouth to say something but then closed it immediately with a  _clack_ of his teeth and resumed his search until he pulled out a set of armour made of jet black scales covered in tiny, rough spikes. This scale mail, Dorn recalled, had been sitting in Anqi's bag, unused, for over two years because the thrifty rogue had been too emotionally attached to it to sell. However, this one instance of sentimentality he didn't mind; after all, slaying one’s very first dragon and claiming its hide was a noteworthy accomplishment. He accepted the replacement; switching his trusted, but indeed overly bulky Enkidu’s plate with the Shadow Dragon scale wouldn’t be such a terrible downgrade. After he donned it, he took another look at his companion, who was kneeling at his feet, strapping his greaves back on. “It’s good that you’re no longer sulking.”

 

Anqi glanced up at him and scoffed. “You seem to be in a better mood as well.” It was true. Ridding themselves of the others had lifted Dorn's spirits considerably, and the prospect of finally leaving Turmish made the disappointment of not finding the mirror seem like it had happened to someone else. He wasn't going to let Anqi know that, however, in case the rogue thought Dorn had absolved him of the blame for his recent lot of idiotic choices.

 

"I no longer need to listen to Knobber's constant prattling, thanks to you," he said and didn't miss Anqi pause at the halfling's name. He squinted suspiciously at his companion, but the half-elf continued his work on fastening Dorn's armour as if he hadn't heard the remark. When he was done, he rose and admired his handiwork with approval. Then Anqi's eye caught his, a glimmer of mischief dancing in its lime-green spots.

 

“You know... all this festival racket got me thinking it would be a waste not to partake in the fun, at least in private,” he said, brushing away an escaped lock from across Dorn’s brow behind his ear, then gently pulled one of his three black earrings. The smell of the lightly perspiring tan flesh in front of Dorn and the eager smile on Anqi's scarred lips was more than the half-orc’s craving mind and body could stand. In one quick motion, he swept the half-elf off his feet and sat him on the wagon and pressed hard against his exposed chest. Dorn’s large frame cast a shadow over his lover, as he twined the fingers of his right hand with Anqi's left, his calloused palm rubbing against the scar tissue that was there, their mouths clashing in a long-overdue battle.  _The blasted armour is in the way_ , he thought vaguely, more preoccupied with the warm skin under his roaming hand and Anqi’s breathless gasps, which to him sounded sweeter than any music ever could. He fumbled with his belt and after a moment found what he'd been yearning for.

 

“Ah, excuse me. Is… this not a good time? Oh, this is not a good time,” squeaked the innkeeper, who was standing in the shade by the stable, his mouth hanging open. He was clutching a basket full of flatbreads and a flask of greenish yellow water.

 

“Begone,” Dorn growled, threatening the man with the most deadly glare he could muster. But in his lust-addled state, he allowed Anqi to wriggle out of from underneath him. The half-elf rushed to intercept the food, skipping over one of his traps. “So sorry, I waited where you told me to, but I—”

 

“It’s fine. I’ll take it from here,” Anqi said curtly, seizing the items from the fat man and giving the innkeeper’s litany of apologies no mind. Grateful he met no more harm than Dorn's wrathful stare, the blasted pest retreated with yet another series of bows. Anqi was still breathing hard when he placed the basket on top of one of their coffers, then took a swig of what smelled like honey and vinegar. He stared at it in surprise and took another sip. “This is nice! You won’t like it.”

 

“Forget the bloody drink and come here." Dorn snatched the flask and started pulling his companion back into his embrace, but a hoofbeat drawing nearer distracted him.

 

“Later,” Anqi whispered into his ear, then raked his fingers through the tough bristle of the half-orc’s two-week-old stubble and retreated far enough to avoid recapture. It was a lone rider who disturbed their moment of intimacy, for which Dorn was almost willing to cut him down without mercy. Arriving in a rush, the man tossed the reins of his black stallion to the stable boy. He was wearing a striped white and blue head scarf and a red sash around his waist. Under a long, open white vest, Dorn could see the shape of a curved blade. The rider gave the two of them a fleeting look, then ducked inside the inn. Meanwhile, Anqi finally decided to cover himself up with a loose, sleeveless felt vest common among the peasants of Turmish which wouldn't offer him any protection whatsoever. Dorn made his displeasure with the choice of clothing known with a grunt, but his half-elf insisted he was quick enough to dodge anything that could come his way. That, admittedly, was true, and at least out on this vast plain they could see potential danger coming at them from a fair distance away. The matter of his attire settled, Anqi fastened his chest band to his belt, then began to disarm the traps he’d scattered around the yard and beyond the inn’s stone fence while Dorn fetched the mares. They both seemed well rested and as eager to get on with their trek as he was.

 

The rider stormed out of the inn and practically knocked the boy over when he held the horse for him to climb, then snapped at him in Turmic. He threw both Anqi and Dorn another, more scrutinising look, then kicked the sides of his steed hard and galloped back the way he came, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake. When he got back up, the boy noticed Dorn handling the horses and yelped in alarm. He rushed to the covered up wagon, boldly waving his hands in protest.

 

“Please! I’ll do it. Guests must rest and eat!”

 

Frustrated beyond measure, Dorn grabbed his sheath and yanked the sword out just enough to make the pesky child stop in his tracks. Anqi intervened before the brat could piss himself from fright and ushered him to the side. He spoke to him in whispers, while Dorn, yearning to punch something, finished harnessing the horses. They sensed his mood and flicked their ears nervously, so he gave the chestnut mare a slap on the neck, then put on his sword and climbed onto the driver’s seat. His companion sent off the boy with another coin, the bleeding heart, then joined him aboard. Dorn spurred the horses on into a spirited trot, all the while imaging how he’d like to mount one of the mares, pull Anqi in front of him and gallop all the way to Alaghôn to claim his due as soon as possible.

 

Anqi seemed to share his desire for intimacy; after a few minutes of silent riding, he crawled up and propped his elbows on the seat next to him, his right one touching Dorn's thigh, yet stubbornly unwilling to sit anywhere near the animals. He was playing with the halfling’s dagger again, this time passing it back and forth from one hand to the other, watching the horizon with his focused scowl, stealing glances at Dorn, and cracking half-smiles whenever he got caught looking. It was bizarre to think that after twenty-five years of being harassed, debased, ridiculed, betrayed and used by others, and then struggling for four more years to form an unlikely trust and friendship with the man beside him, Dorn would find himself exchanging coy looks with a bloodsworn brother and lover. Remembering how he used to be in his childhood made his evolution seem unreal, but, he noted, most fortunate. If only he were able to make everyone who had ever looked down on him see how far he’d come, alone at first and then with his companion by his side, and then push onwards to become the stuff of true legends, he would be satisfied. The two of them had still not achieved their full potential, and it frustrated him to be forced to wait for that to happen. They never mentioned it—the truth sat between them like a stretch of quicksand—but his time was running out faster than Anqi’s. And while Dorn never believed he’d survive long enough to die of old age—no, he actually despised that miserable thought—his opportunities to achieve lasting greatness were becoming severely limited. It was true that Anqi had helped him to take the first step into claiming his dues by convincing him to break free of Ur-Gothoz and to resist Azoteth’s temptations. But it was also he who had swiped the greatest opportunity for Dorn to become immortalised on the pages of history right from under his nose when Anqi rejected godhood. Yes, it meant they could remain together, yet sometimes, especially when he found their progress frustrated by trivialities, he wondered…

 

“'Farewell, oh boys! I choose my horse.'

And the maiden gallop'd into the sun.”

 

Anqi sang that bawdy tavern song they'd heard in Arrabar under his nose, and when Dorn scowled his way, he shrugged innocently.

 

Indeed, Dorn wondered about a great many things, one of which was how exactly he managed to put up with this tone-deaf scamp grinning at him without strangling him for so long. As if bolstered by his scorn, Anqi started to sing the inane song louder from the beginning, straining his voice to stretch the notes to the point of breaking. Dorn gritted his teeth; this could not go on. “Get up here,” he barked, then dragged Anqi by the scruff to sit on the bench beside him. His smile replaced by a look of sheer terror, the squirming half-elf tried to resist, but when he got close to the horses’ rumps, all fight drained out of him instantly, and he clutched at Dorn’s arm like a drowning man would at a straw. “Steady. I’m not going to let go.”

 

“If you wanted me to shut up, you could’ve said so, you bloody bastard,” Anqi hissed through clenched teeth, his voice quavering. When Dorn released him, he continued to hold onto him tightly. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you in case they suddenly start to buck and you’ll end up in the dirt.”

 

“This will be more productive than you braying like an ass; it's time you rid yourself of this ridiculous fear of horses once and for all.”

 

“I'll have you know there is a very good reason for it! They hate me!”

 

“They can sense your fear of them, but they are only beasts. Here.” Dorn snatched the dagger out of the cringing rogue’s hand and replaced it with the reins. “Show them who’s in charge.”

 

Anqi gripped the straps stiffly for a minute before turning to Dorn with a look of utter loathing. “Great. What’s this supposed to do? They’re just running by themselves and don’t even know I’m—” Dorn didn't let him finish his grousing. He grabbed his wrist and forced him to snap the reins, which sent the horses into a canter. Anqi yelped and tugged at the straps hard until the wagon came to a stop. The horses tossed their heads, whinnying impatiently. “Don’t  _ever_ do that again,” Anqi said, his voice cracking, and flung the reins back at Dorn.

 

“See? There was nothing to it. Unlike people, when you tell a horse to do something, it does so.” Satisfied with the demonstration, for now, Dorn spurred the mares on, resuming the trek. Anqi remained seated next to him, albeit tense and sour-faced, most likely out of spite rather than some new-found bravery. More importantly, there was no more singing.

 

The dusty road continued unchanged for a few hours, with fields of wheat, rapeseed, barley and oats stretching on either side as far as the eye could see, until they reached another, much busier crossroad. Their wide path intersected with a narrow avenue adorned by thin, pointed cypresses that ran parallel to the coastline. The straight path connected the mountains in the north and the south of the region and formed a border between the farmlands and the grassy slope, which transformed into sandy dunes far in the distance. Already, the sea breeze felt cool on Dorn's skin, and he could hear the cries of seagulls over the clamour of carts and wagons lining up to head towards the city which sprawled at the end of the much wider path to the east.

 

Having ridden swiftly for so long, Dorn groaned at being forced to slow down to a mere walk and join the queue that would get them through the busy roadside market. Shielded from the sun by the shades of three massive, old oaks, farmers peddled their fruit and vegetables from their carts, a baker’s wagon was offering freshly baked rolls and long, crispy sticks of bread, and a few paces away from the road, a snake oil salesman had set up a small stage and was boasting about the effectiveness of some miracle product to a crowd of gawking peasants. Guards wearing Alaghôn’s garish azure and golden colours wandered among the merchants armed in spears and scowls. There was a checkpoint set up further along the city road to where most of the wagons were making their slow way. Two flags were flapping on each side of the sturdy wooden barrier that blocked the path. The maroon one displaying a white star surrounded by a beige ring of mountains represented the Republic of Turmish, while its capital’s flag was rapeseed flower-yellow and boasted a detailed depiction of a blue dragon spouting golden flames, gliding majestically above azure waves. Underneath, two sentries were conducting a check of the wagons’ contents and questioned the travellers about their purpose in the city. They turned away one out of five of them, the spurned drivers complaining loudly as they urged their mules or horses to turn around, but those who passed the inspection were welcome to ride on beyond the barrier. From the general chatter around the marketplace, Dorn gathered that everyone was trying to capitalise on the upcoming festival, bringing in barrels and crates of alcohol, foodstuffs, and all sorts of trinkets that had something to do with the moon, like crescent-shaped jewellery, or with carnal pleasures, like silk sheets or incenses for stimulation.

 

“Ridiculous,” Dorn muttered. Anqi hummed in agreement and produced a richly embellished scroll tied with a purple ribbon, which he twirled between his fingers in place of his dagger, looking relatively relaxed despite his proximity to the horses. Dorn couldn’t quite find it in him to let his guard down. Digging up treasures, especially those considered burial gifts, was a Turami taboo, for which thieves had been known to receive sentences of up to thirty years of hard labour. The rolled up piece of parchment was meant to ensure they would not share the fate of such gravediggers. “If this doesn’t work, I’m going to string that perfumed fop up from his golden fountain,” he said in a hushed tone, just before they moved up to the checkpoint. Anqi smiled and handed the scroll to the seasoned elven guard who approached as soon as their wagon came to a stop, then bowed his head to the much younger one operating the barrier. The young man tipped his head, then let his eyes rest on Dorn, or rather, on his sword.

 

“Howdy, good sirs, lovely weather we’re havin’ today, eh?” Anqi said, pretending to sound like the old, knavish smuggler they’d met on the way into Turmish, and giving off the impression of a dimwitted merchant. The guard who accepted the parchment seemed convinced by the act and concentrated on reading the message.

 

“‘Special delivery of hand-crafted tableware and three sets of refurbished antique armour from Xorhun for  _Pasha_ Jazim yn Nalud el Karassar’,” he read to his colleague. “The signature and seal seem to be in order. You can move along.”

 

“Much obliged, my good man,” Anqi said and collected the scroll. Dorn clicked his tongue at the horses, but before they could take a step forward, the young guard pulled on the chestnuts’ bridle.

 

“Hold on, one question. What’s with the sword and the get-up?” he said looking from Dorn to Anqi with open suspicion. “We’ve had a recent surge of bandit activity around here. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about it, would you?”

 

The elven guard groaned at his compatriot. Dorn was about to talk some sense into the whelp, but Anqi interrupted him with a loud gasp, enjoying his boisterous persona too much for the half-orc’s taste. “Did you just ask if  _Pasha_ Jazim yn Nalud el Karassar hires outlaws to look after his own deliveries!? Young’un, it is precisely because of these bandits that I’ve got my fierce bodyguard at my side. I swear on my mother’s grave, they must be taking any daft farmboys into the City Guard these days,” he added, shaking his head and scowling in disapproval. The young guard turned red in the face and was stuck stuttering a reply, but his senior ordered him to be silent and open the barrier.

 

“Apologies for any inconvenience to  _Pasha_ Karassar,” he added in a hurry as he waved them through.

 

“I’ll be sure to put in a good word for you to the good  _Pasha_ , mister…?”

 

“Lucan. Varo Lucan. Thank you very much,” the elf said enthusiastically, but Anqi was no longer listening.

 

“‘Youngun’?” Dorn asked, incredulous at his companion's gall, once they were out of earshot of the guards. “You’re practically his age, maybe a year or two older.”

 

“Please. I bet that green boy hasn’t even seen twenty springs, but I appreciate you forget I'm already a quarter of a century old,” Anqi said and leaned on Dorn’s arm lazily. The half-orc decided the horses did not scare the rogue as much as he claimed, seeing how at ease he was despite sitting so near them. He was going to point that out, but his companion cut in before he had the chance to comment on his discovery. “I suppose you’re satisfied with the power of the ‘perfumed fop’s’ name? Jazim may be an overdressed, pompous brat, but you can't deny he can deliver on his promises.” Anqi twirled the rolled up scroll once in his hand, then tossed it back in his bag, where it would wait until they reached Alaghôn’s gates in about half an hour’s time when it would be inspected again. The small dagger made its reappearance, the sneak thief having pinched it from Dorn’s grasp when he wasn’t looking, flashing redly as Anqi spun and flipped it. The half-elf’s hands could rarely stay still for very long, but this fidgeting was excessive even for him.

 

Dorn kept the observation to himself. “I’ll give him credit only once he delivers gold for these sunken treasures. And I'll accept no delays just because we happen to carry more than he expects.”

 

“It won't hurt if we wait a day or two. You might actually enjoy yourself,” Anqi said under his breath, nudging his chin in between the spikes on Dorn’s shoulder armour.

 

“ _One_ day away from the crowds and their meaningless festivities, and then we start making our way back to the Sword Coast.” The corner of Anqi’s mouth stiffened at that. “You have something to say?” Dorn prompted.

 

The half-elf chuckled through a half-grin. “Nothing goes past you, does it?”

 

“Not when you’re this obvious. Now spit it out.”

 

The grin on Anqi’s face turned serious. “There is a favour I need to ask you. A big one.” He flipped the dagger twice. “Before we begin our arrangements to return, there is somewhere I’d like us to go first, and someone I'd like us to speak to.”

 

“It better not be another fortune-teller who just happens to live across the bloody sea. Who is it and what’s so important about him?”

 

Another flip, then a twirl, then Anqi’s tongue snuck out to moisten his lips. There was something very off about his hesitation. When he finally spoke, his words were measured and his voice flat. “Before we joined Brammin’s group, I went to see Jazim. You didn’t want to join, remember? We... spoke about his business, mostly, and then a topic arose about an opportunity for an… unconventional kind of employment. I’ve been considering it.”

 

Dorn stared at the quivering of Anqi's lips, which he was trying to hide by pressing them hard together. “'Unconventional employment'?" he said sharply. "You mean dirty work for some sleazy merchant who lives half a world across from where we want to go?" Anqi avoided his eye. Dorn's anger flared. "And you’ve been considering this alone?”

 

“I was going to tell you after we've found the mirror, as the next step of our journey,” the rogue protested, then added hastily, “And it’s not your average grunt work Jazim's offering. We’d be given a ship, a crew and cargo to haul, but in truth, we’d be smuggling opiates and other illegal goods. Not slaves, though, I’ve told him up front we would never—”

 

“A ship and cargo!?” Dorn roared. The horses spooked and started, but a strong yank reined them back into a slow trot. Anqi looked a shade paler and licked his lips. “What kind of asinine deal is that fop trying to drag you into? Doesn’t his family deal with spices? What’s the first thing a pampered brat like him would even know about smuggling? Or you about sailing, for that matter?”

 

“I’ve picked up the basics the few time’s we’ve been aboard a ship. You know I’m a quick study, but until I’ve learned enough, I thought Saemon could captain for us.”

 

For a moment, Dorn thought he’d heard wrong. The determined look Anqi put on during arguments told him otherwise. “Saemon Havarian!? When we arrived in Alaghôn, I told that scrounger I’d allow his betrayals to slide in return for what he’s done for us, but I warned him never to cross my path again.”

 

“I didn’t,” Anqi stated with the cheek of a bullheaded five-year-old. Blood rushed to the half-orc’s head, but the rogue clasped him on the arm and turned him around so they were face to face. “Just let me say my piece before you reject this whole deal. Havarian knows the Inner Sea and the kind of people who sail upon it, but most importantly, he knows Jazim. Fifty thousand gold as the downpayment, two years of smuggling for the merchant, and then he’ll sell us the ship. A ship and a crew, Dorn. An opportunity like that doesn’t just appear out of thin air every day. We’d be fools not to take it.”

 

“We’d be fools to waste time and risk our freedom hauling drugs across some oversized pond!” Anqi pressed his finger to his lips; there were wagons in front and behind them, and while they were out of earshot of normal conversations, Dorn’s booming voice was enough to turn heads. He, however, could care less at the moment. He knocked Anqi's hand away and growled, “Have you actually lost your mind!?”

 

“Let me finish explaining,” the half-elf insisted, his face heating up, his eye gleaming—Dorn would throw him down and have his way with him if the nonsense he was spewing wasn’t enough to douse his desire. “That’s where Saemon’s intel comes in: Jazim is nothing more than a thrill-seeking, spoiled brat with more money than he knows what to do with. He’s the only representative of his father’s company in Turmish, and apart from signing off on the reports his many advisers send back to daddy, he’s free to do as he wills. And he’s willing to send us out on the sea on an independent ship for a mere fifty thousand. Saemon says the price is just for show to make us think he’s got standards, but I’ll bet an arm and a leg that all he wants is to take a quick plunge into the grime of the criminal underworld, get his kicks, then run back to his luxuries. But we wouldn’t be going back with him.”

 

Dorn furrowed his brow. “You mean to rob him?”

 

Anqi beamed. “Normally I’d say yes, but this time it’s better to let him stay our friend and use his connections until we’ve established ourselves and replaced his crew with our own. Saemon will help us with that.”

 

“And what if he or the merchant trick us?”

 

“If Karassar starts bothering us, we can just blackmail him. I’m sure his papa would hate to find out about the kind of illegal activities his son had involved the Karassar Trading Company in. Jazim can stand to lose a ship, but not his father’s backing. As for Havarian, do you really think he’d try to pull anything after what he’s already done for us?” Dorn growled, but there was no denying the help the pirate had offered them in their most desperate hour, no matter how much he wished he could forget about that disaster. “Trust me. When we dump all this treasure in front of Jazim, it’ll make him realise we not only keep our promises but give a little extra. I’ve already sown the seeds, next time I’ll spin a tale so irresistible, he won’t think twice to doubt our commitment. All you have to do—all I’m asking you to do—is to go along with it until we’ve got the wind in our sails and the crew in our pockets.”

 

Dorn shrugged off Anqi’s arm of his shoulder and faced the road, irritated by the fire he saw in his companion’s eye. Nothing Dorn had said or done in the last couple of months was able to bring this kind of passion out in him, at least not to this extent. It… disagreed with him. “For something you’ve been only ‘considering’, you seem to have this all figured out well. Too well for my liking. And were I to ‘go along’ with this scheme, what, pray tell, would we even want with a ship captained by Saemon-bloody-Havarian in the first place?”

 

“He’d be captain only until I can take over from him. I don’t intend to become his partner, you know,” Anqi snorted, but Dorn was fairly sure his companion did not dislike the notion of working with the glib-tongued pirate as half-as-much as he said he did. The two were birds of a feather, which was one of three main reasons Dorn wanted to keep Havarian away from him. The second one was that he did not trust the man, and in that he was wholly justified; Havarian had not only sold them out to the guild of vampires who were hunting them, he had also left them to fend for themselves against a horde of enraged Sahuagins, duped them into taking the ire of the Githyanki in his stead, and blamed them for a theft he had committed.

 

The third reason was the most crucial of them all. Just thinking about the nerve-wracking anxiety and humiliation he had suffered having to put his trust entirely in Havarian after their disaster in Innarlith was enough to compel him to seek out the scoundrel and snap his neck, lest he spread the tale. Sharing a ship’s deck with the man was a lot to ask, but Anqi did always demand the world of him. In that, at least, his lover never changed. And from what he’d just told him, it seemed like the world, or at least a good chunk of it, was what he wanted.

 

“With a ship of our own we’d be free to go anywhere we wanted: Thay, the Pirate Isles, Hells, even the Dragon Coast, since that’s where  _you_ want to go. We could reach the Sword Coast from there in just over a week. But the best part is, we would never be stuck in one place. If anyone came after us, we’d just hop on board and sail to any of hundreds of destinations, many of them much more promising than Baldur’s Gate, Amn or Tethyr where our quest for power is concerned. The Sea of the Fallen Stars is so much bigger than any land we’ve ever been to—there are more wonders to find here and many more challenges to conquer. Dorn”—Anqi grasped his hand—”Blood"—he kissed his knuckles—"is that not something you could want?”

 

Dorn shrugged off his companion’s sweaty palm. “What I want is to silence those who ever dared drag our names through the mud, so that the tale of the Scourge and the Butcher would be whispered in fright and awe, not mocked by ignorant buffoons like the dwarf and so many others before him. What I want is to destroy the source of our dishonour. You want to escape it.” He paused to watch the half-elf’s reaction, but a sudden burst of laughter was not what he expected.

 

“'Destroy it'? Are you listening to yourself?” Anqi tossed his head back, his clear voice ringing loudly over the creaking of their wagons and the hoofbeat of the horses. “I get that it must’ve felt good to split Brammin in two, but are you going to hunt down and kill anyone who has ever spoken ill of us? That’s a bloody long list! Or are you going to stroll into Baldur’s Gate and murder Silvershield for wanting to hang me and imprison you, or kill Queen Zaranda in her godsdamned castle for putting a bounty on our heads? I’m sure your immediate capture and death sentence will improve your livelihood dramatically since it’s  _such_ a dishonour for you to be alive by my side.” His mirth died on his lips as he sucked them in to stop more folly from spilling. It was the right call too because Dorn’s fingers were itching to close around his slender neck. Anqi’s skin bruised much more easily than before he gave up his powers, and Dorn still could see the marks he'd left there the night before, so he decided to spare the tender skin the hurt for the moment.

 

“Your jabs as are dull as your wit, so don’t bother. And were I to chose the Queen as my target, I’d at least be aiming towards something more tangible than your rumoured artefacts or shady deals with lordlings and pirates. It would be just us against our enemies, and no false friends to leech off of our glory, nor stab us in the back once they found our ambitions too daring. I never thought I would say this, but even Ur-Gothoz had a better approach to these matters than you.”

 

A yank on his shoulder brought Dorn back face to face with the surprisingly furious half-elf, his blazing dagger raised dangerously close to his chin. “Don’t you ever compare me to that manipulative sadist,” he hissed, but before he could see his error, Dorn had his wrist in a vice-like grip. As if taking candy from a child, he wrenched the weapon from his companion's hand and flung it across the road. “You’re crushing it,” Anqi hissed.

 

“Next time you raise your weapon against me like that, you’d best be prepared to go through with it,” Dorn growled and released his fool rogue's arm. Looking shaken and muttering something that sounded like 'I didn't mean to', Anqi rubbed the reddened skin, then jumped off the wagon. The half-orc cursed out loud and yanked the reins hard. “Where are you going?”

 

The wayward rogue ignored him and waited for the wagon behind to pass before dashing across the road, where he jumped over the ditch and ducked into a tangle of shrubs, vines and wildflowers where the dagger had fallen. The urge to leave Anqi behind was strong, but Dorn distracted himself by guiding the horses further to the roadside to stop. He used the chance to relieve himself, unashamed in front of wagons full of rowdy revellers passing him one by one, some of them whistling at him and demanding he 'showed it off'. Whatever this Festival of Lovers was, and he expected it was nothing worthwhile at all, the Turami were crazy about it, and he already dreaded the things he’d be forced to endure inside the gaudy, elf-infested city. The sooner they arrived, the sooner they will have concluded their business, so he climbed back on the wagon and whistled for Anqi to hurry it up. A hand shot up from the tangle waving him away with a rude gesture.  _Insufferable_.

 

Another minute passed before the half-elf nuisance made his way out of the ditch, clutching the blasted dagger and picking leaves and broken twigs off of his clothes. He stepped onto the dirt path.

 

And then he screamed.

 

Knees buckling underneath him, Anqi fell to the ground in front of a quickly approaching caravan, his hand clutching the left side of his face.

 

His instinct kicking in, Dorn vaulted over the seat without hesitation, but the horse was right upon Anqi, its driver pulling on its reins and shouting for it to stop. “Quickly!” Dorn urged, extending his arm.

 

The half-elf dove at him, rolling in the dirt at the last possible moment, before the bay draft horse trampled him.

 

“Are you alright!?” the caravan driver yelled from his seat. Behind him, the next wagon came to a stop, the woman at the reins asking about the commotion.

 

“Begone!” Dorn barked at them, then helped Anqi to his feet.

 

“Apologies, I lost my footing,” the rogue said to the drivers sheepishly, still pressing his hand to the left side of his head. The owner of the caravan told him to be careful next time, and urged his horse on, not wanting more trouble. The woman hissed at Dorn as she passed them, calling him names in her native tongue, but he was too agitated to care.

 

“What happened!?” he demanded.

 

Anqi glared at him, but there was a sense of guilt in the stare. He moved closer to their wagon, where he finally uncovered his face. Dorn sucked in the air sharply. Naturally tanned, the skin on Anqi's cheekbone was a sickly shade of grey, and the edge of his bandana was soaked in black blood. More was smeared over his jaw and lips, and his hand was dripping with the ooze.

 

“Gods damn you.” Dorn gritted his teeth and raised Anqi’s face gently, then peeled away the cloth from the wound it was covering. The skin over his temple felt feverish.

 

“Careful! Bloody Hells,” the half-elf hissed and tried to move away, but Dorn held him in place. “It was just a stab of pain. It doesn’t hurt anymore unless you poke it like tha—ah! Stop!”

 

“Quit your wriggling, or I swear, I’ll knock you out cold so I can take a look at this,” the half-orc growled, then marched them over to the back of the wagon and yanked Anqi up by his arm. Cursing all the while, the rogue knew better than to oppose him. Dorn slammed his bag open with a bang and rummaged through his phials. He shoved a clean piece of cloth in Anqi’s hand, then uncorked a bottle of holy water and splashed it all over the fabric, almost emptying the thing. “Clean yourself up with this.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, I know the drill,” the half-elf muttered, then began dabbing his cheek carefully.

 

“Shut up. Eat this,” Dorn snapped and pushed a stalk of yarrow at his mouth. Anqi plucked the flower from his fingers and fed himself, a sour look about him. “How long has it been like this?”.

 

The rogue hesitated as he chewed the herb. “Since we’ve left for the ruins. It got worse after fighting the mist,” Anqi finally admitted. “I thought it was the usual thing.”

 

“The ‘usual thing’ isn’t something to scoff at, and this is much worse than that.”

 

“Is it as bad as this disgusting weed?”

 

Dorn paused, taken aback. “You make jokes!?”

 

“Have you ever tasted this? It’s disgusting! Whoever taught you all about plants, they sure didn’t bother broadening your palate if you think this is acceptable to feed to people.”

 

Tightening the strap on his bag, Dorn ignored the whining and returned to his seat. “If you've got the energy to talk back, then you’ll be fine until I can make a proper salve. Do try not to get trampled until then. It would be a nuisance.”

 

"Would it be too much for you to bear?" Anqi asked in a strange, melancholy tone. Dorn growled.

 

"Questions like that will get you hurt," he warned. The half-elf smiled, then scooted onto the seat next to him, as Dorn guided the horses to rejoin the line of carriages and caravans. He noticed Anqi had wisely put his new dagger back in its sheath, then spotted the bruise that was forming where he’d squeezed his wrist earlier. Above it, crisscrossed all over Anqi’s forearms, were countless nicks and scars he’d accumulated from the many rigorous sparring sessions he’d insisted upon after losing his powers. In the months following their confrontation with Amelyssan, the proud rogue had tried not to show how much the sudden decline in his strength had bothered him. So much so that he often pushed himself too far when training, which usually resulted in sores and aches that forced them to postpone their nighttime activities, something Anqi himself had complained about to no end. Most days, Dorn had been able to easily break his companion's parry and slice open his skin or catch him off-balance and knock him to the ground due to his exhausted state. But that never stopped the half-elf, who demanded Dorn keep up the harsh training until some of his stamina and power returned, which the combative half-orc was keen to deliver.

 

Anqi's stubborn determination about his ludicrous plan reminded Dorn of that time, and so did his belligerence about the matter. The rogue's jaw was set and his gaze was focused on the horizon as he tended to his wound as he was bid, and Dorn knew his mind was made up; after so many years of travelling together, most of them spent acting as a leader, he could tell when Anqi put on the mask of a dictator. It was very much akin to that of a petulant child, he observed. Still silent, the rogue unwrapped the soaked black rag from his head and replaced it with a fresh deep, dark orange cloth and covered his closely shorn, ginger head with care. The bright colour, no doubt, would fit the Alaghonian ostentatious fashion. Then, after a few more minutes, as Dorn had made his decision, Anqi shifted in his seat. “Thank you,” he said, motioning to his head wound. “As always.”

 

“Save your thanks for when we meet with that fop of yours, and pray I don’t strangle Havarian as soon as he opens his mouth.” The way Anqi’s face brightened did things to Dorn he absolutely despised, so he focused his eyes on the road instead, immediately regretting his begrudging assent.

 

“One meeting, Dorn, that’s all, and I swear you’ll see how much you can benefit from this deal.”

 

Whether he would or not, Dorn had doubts if it was only his affection for Anqi that made him give in, or if there was something about his plan that somehow resonated with Dorn's own ambitions. He was a warrior born and trained in the mountains; a deck swaying among the waves was no place for him, especially if he were forced to share it with one of the people he most despised in the world. The foppish merchant was no better, although Dorn would have to see him only once before he could put his existence out of his mind. And then there came the prospect of sharing a closed space with a number of strangers, most likely of the local variety, and he didn't need to be reminded how well humans and elves loved to loathe half-orcs.

 

He couldn’t even begin to wrap his head around all the other tiny inconveniences he was agreeing to, but he was not ready to surrender without a final word. “One meeting, but if either of your accomplices fails to satisfy my expectations, this folly ends and we leave immediately. We’ve been stranded in this bland, blithe country for far too long; I need to sink my teeth into a real challenge.”

 

“I can help with that,” said Anqi, slipping his fingers into Dorn’s mane and giving the thick, loose ponytail a light tug. The once-fearsome blackguard shook his head and scoffed in disgust, mostly at himself.  _Have I truly become this weak_ , he wondered, but as the orange, yellow and blue walls of the city grew nearer, he failed to come upon a satisfactory answer.

 

*

 

“Lavender! Jasmine! Sandalwood! Get your incense here!”

 

“Pearl necklaces! Perfect as tribute and beautiful for the ladies! Matching coral bangles and earrings for couples in love! Three sets for the price of two, only today!”

 

“Fresh oysters, get your fresh oysters! Spicy, mild, sweet! They’ll make you last all night, guaranteed! Get 'em before they’re gone!”

 

The loudest of the merchants were the most grating, but after being stuck in a snail-paced procession through the middle of the grand market for almost an hour, Dorn was ready to slice any hawker who came within his arm’s reach. With the crowd of sweaty shoppers and peddlers of many colours writhing around their wagon like maggots on a carcass, the opportunity came almost as soon as the murderous thought germinated in his mind.

 

“Big man! Strong man! Yes, you!” A barrel-chested elf-maggot in a criminally tiny and glittering vest called out to him, an overly friendly smile plastered on his pointed face. “Looking for cassil, perhaps? Or nararoot, for your lady friend? Save you a bit of trouble during, but mostly after the festivities, yes?” The merchant snickered at his own joke and moved ever closer to Dorn's side of the wagon.

 

Anqi, who was obscured from the elf's view save for his slim legs, leaned across Dorn’s lap in time to halt his assault on the trader, and gave the blind fool a good look of his half-concealed, face. “We won’t be getting into any trouble, seeing as we’re both men,” he said with false courtesy. The elf blinked, taken aback by the rogue’s soft but distinctly male voice, then looked from him to Dorn and gasped.

 

“My apologies! Didn’t mean to offend, friends. Are you out of town? Please, let me apologise. Here, fresh figs,” he exclaimed and forced two into Anqi’s hand before the half-elf could pull away. “Best in town to be sure! I’ve got avocados and watermelons as well, help you stay hydrated when enjoying our wonderful Festival of Lovers.”

 

Free to move, Dorn grabbed the elf’s ridiculous piece of clothing and growled into his face, “One more word out of you, and you’ll be enjoying it from beyond the grave, fruitmonger. Begone!” He shoved the man with enough force to send him sprawling on his back, but the ebb and flow of the crowd absorbed him and released him a few meters away, where the half-orc could no longer reach him. Just then, the guards perched atop a two storey high wooden platform erected in the middle of the marketplace called out to their comrades on the ground, and the line of wagons began to move again.

 

“Bloody Hells! Taking that last turn was a mistake,” Anqi groaned and tossed the gifted figs into the crowd.

 

“You think!?” Dorn's rage caused by the wait and the afternoon sun slowly roasting him alive, made even worse by the stifling heat radiating from the bodies around, was about to reach a boiling point. What happened to the breeze that felt so refreshing outside of the city walls? “Why in the blazes did you think taking the Market Square Road would make traversing through this beehive of a city less of a slog?”

 

“I didn’t. I said to keep to the outer walls but that overturned wine wagon was in the way. It would’ve taken forever for them to finish hoisting it up and getting all the barrels back on.”

 

“Well, this is taking just as long. At least there was some shade back there,” Dorn said with a huff and tasted another salty drop of sweat that trickled from his upper lip into his mouth. Anqi offered him their third and final skin of water, which Dorn drained completely. “Do you even know which way to take next?”

 

“Right, if we want to return to the wall. We’ll figure out the rest afterwards.”

 

Knowing violence wouldn’t speed things up, Dorn took a deep breath and started going through the steps of his morning training routine in his mind. He'd skipped it the past few days—perhaps that was the cause of his excess energy and the urge to be physical.  _In more ways than one_ , his frustrated mind supplied, but he chased the thought away.  _Right slash, uppercut, slam down_.

 

As they rolled sluggishly towards the edge of the market, the line finally picked up the pace, and patches of empty spaces started appearing on each side of the road. Then came the lifeline in the form of a shade cast by a massive portcullis painted a hideous shade of magenta, that led out of the grand square. When they emerged on the other side, the way right was much less busy than left, which, as he remembered from their last visit, led towards the city’s main road called the Halondar. Twice as wide as any other road, it ran from the main gate, through the commoners’ portion of the city and the shipyard, all the way to the docks. Not yet aware of what they had been getting into, they had been stuck in the bustle of the Halondar the first time around, and so they had thought themselves clever for entering the city through the smaller south gate on their second try. But with their plan to avoid traffic foiled, the only other way to get to their destination quickly was to dart along the Golden Track, called thusly for the colour of the gutters often overflowing with urine, all the way to the edge of the wealthy and walled off Merchant District.  _Better late than not at all_ , he thought grumpily, then turned right following the road south-east.

 

The way was much more abundant in shade thanks to the three-storied buildings often joining their counterparts on the opposite side of the roads by a shared third floor, which formed a kind of archway. The closer they got to the towering city wall, the lower the arcs became, eventually leaving very little space above Dorn’s head, but thankfully the paths underneath were wide enough for two wagons to pass each other with room to spare for pedestrians. As much as the marketplace was teeming with festival goods, the poorer and dirtier living quarters seemed oblivious to the event; just like any other slum in any other city, it was full of brats making a racket play-fighting with sticks, washerwomen gossiping over their laundry, and courtesans, both male and female, calling out flirtatiously to anyone whose eyes would drift over their skimpily clad, tanned bodies. Dorn dismissed them with nary a fleeting glance.

 

“Wait, hold on,” Anqi said as they passed under another low hanging arc and ended up in a dead end with the painted, outer wall looming over them, golden and yellow at the bottom and sky blue and navy at the top. The doors to the houses on both sides were boarded over, and the smell of rotting food and excrement was so strong Dorn’s eyes watered. The horses weren’t fond of it either, and threw their heads back, eager to leave the filthy, narrow courtyard.

 

“I suggest you ‘figure out’ the way right now before I’m forced to do it my way,” the half-orc warned with a growl, then got off and checked if the horses and the wagon would be able to turn around. It was a tight squeeze, but they could make it, so he got to it right away, walking the mares forward, then forcing them to walk back at an angle, over and over until he guided them around and out from under the arc. In the meantime, Anqi had made his way to the last intersection to double-check the surroundings and returned with a grim expression on his face.

 

“We’ve somehow gone past the right path three crossroads back,” he started explaining, but Dorn cut him off.

 

“Do you know which way to go now?”

 

“I think so.”

 

“Not good enough. You!” Dorn yelled at a shaggy youth sitting on a nearby doorstep, smoking a pipe and carving something in a chunk of wood. He raised a brow at the summons, but never moved nor spoke up. The half-orc abandoned the reins and approached him, towering over the man. “Which way to the Merchant District? Show us.”

 

The man took a deep drag and lazily released the smoke through his nostrils. He cocked his head to the side and sighed. “And who’s asking?”

 

The Abyssal Blade appeared in Dorn’s hand before he knew it. Three stomps and he was right above the man, who finally realised the folly of provoking a vexed half-orc, and was scrambling to get away. Dorn reached out to grab him by his filthy tunic and show him how it felt to be carved alive when his mantle got snagged on something. The youth used the chance to flee, screaming bloody murder at the top of his lungs and causing passersby to look down the street with interest. Furious at his prey escaping, he shoved the sword back in its sheath and turned to see what his mantle got caught on, only to witness Anqi dropping it nonchalantly.

 

“What did you do that for?” Dorn demanded.

 

“To stop you from murdering someone out in the open. I thought we agreed to keep a low profile until we’ve secured the ship,” the rogue said, his voice low.

 

They did agree after Dorn had his final-final word on the matter. Waving his hand in frustration, he got back on the wagon, while Anqi ran ahead. They arrived at the crossroad where they had apparently erred, and at once recognised the cause of their mistake; the correct path they were meant to take was barricaded by a wagon selling overripe vegetables to the cheap corner canteen, completely obstructing the view of the narrow Golden Track. Anqi managed to hurry the delivery man along before Dorn rolled up, then jumped on the back of the wagon, gave him a pat on the shoulder, and then sat down with a thud. Dorn heard his hiss of pain. “Damn, bloody eye.”

 

“Have another yarrow stalk and bear with it,” Dorn said, reining in his irritation. Anqi was lucky the infected tissue from the scar above his brow spread to just the corner of his eye, otherwise, he could have lost his eyesight completely, which was the last thing they needed. Already lacking in strength, losing his depth of vision would make him much less efficient in combat. He didn’t know who between them would have been more discouraged by that.

 

“I’ll take option number two, thanks,” Anqi muttered, his voice strained, then propped his head on the small of Dorn’s back. “But really, how come you know all this? I can’t imagine you learning from a shaman. You were always so adamant against all sorts of roots and shrubbery whenever we met with druids, so I never expected you yourself had this kind of hobby.”

 

“Continue to mock me, and I’ll make you swallow a root that will make your throat burn whenever you try to speak. Maybe that will teach you to weigh your words more carefully. You don’t need to know how I’ve gained this knowledge—simply be content that I have it and that I’m willing to share it with you.”

 

“Content, I am. Curious, doubly so.”

 

“That is your problem to deal with.”

 

Anqi scoffed. Dorn could almost hear a retort about to roll off his tongue when a child ran out onto the street ahead and darted towards them. Three riders followed at a gallop, snarling curses and brandishing curved swords.

 

“Thieving scum! I’ll get you for this!”

 

The girl locked eyes with Dorn, then ran past the horses, giving the grey mare a fright. The hoofbeat of another horse running at them from behind startled a high-pitched scream out of the girl, as the fourth rider trapped the little street urchin in between them. Before she could slip underneath their wagon, the thug from behind snatched the girl off the muddy road by her arm, dangling her as if she were a ragdoll.

 

“Gotchu, you dirt-rat,” the man no older than Anqi chortled, showing his brown teeth when he grinned. “Think you can steal from the Ruby Talons and get away with it?” At the sound of the name, the few passersby around quickened their pace, and the people in the houses slammed their doors and shutters shut.

 

“Well done, Arno,” the wrinkliest of the thugs said, and motioned to the other two to join their friend, while he hung back, leaning over his white stallion’s neck. The girl squirmed and yelled in Turmic, but her captor only laughed as he whirled his horse to torment her. He wasn’t as skilled in controlling his animal as he probably thought he was; his horse threw his head around wildly and on the second spin it bumped its black muzzle into Anqi’s shoulder. The half-elf jumped to his feet, which got the attention of the four thugs. Dorn could feel the hairs on his neck stand, and shifted in his seat, preparing for the worst.

 

“What’s with you, eh, you halfway bastard? Got something to say? Something you don’t like?” The man called Arno halted his horse then put on his best scowl to give off the impression that little girls weren’t the only ones he could pick on. In Dorn’s opinion, he did poorly. “Better step off, or me and my mates will finish messing that slashed up ugly mug of yours. And what are you looking at, tusk-face?”

 

“The next milkskin I’ll turn into mush,” Dorn answered in a low growl. The impertinent smirk was gone from Arno’s pimpled face in an instant, but the other humans jeered and hooted.

 

“Hear what the scumbreed said?”

 

“Go on, Arno! Show him what happens when you disrespect a Ruby Talon!”

 

Dorn was just about done listening to these maggots’ nonsense and reached for his sword, but Anqi gave him a hand signal: ‘keep low’, and said, “Hard to disrespect someone who’s doing such a great job by himself. Amazing child-beating skills, really! I bet that makes you the top dog among your Red Talon bitches.”

 

Arno turned the aforementioned shade. “It’s Ruby, you mutt,” he growled and reached for the red-jewelled scimitar. He aimed to cut at Anqi’s neck, but the quick rogue avoided the swing with ease and used its momentum to grab the mouthy goon’s wrist and yank him off his horse. Both he and the girl landed in the mud, but Dorn’s attention was on the other three; one muscular, one fat with skewed eyes, and their older leader, who had more hair coming out of his ears than remained on his spotted head.

 

“You’ll pay for that,” yelled the muscle-bound one. He had a set of yellow demon’s eyes tattooed above his own that contrasted with his dark skin. Both pairs glowered fiercely as he pulled out his bejewelled sword and kicked his horse into a dash. Dorn was waiting for such an invitation. His grip like steel, he held his breath for half a beat before he yanked his darkly shimmering blade, aiming its arc to decapitate.

 

“Dalon, stop!” the old leader yelled as soon as Dorn moved. The four-eyed thug pulled at his reins instantly; his horse screamed and swerved, but the greatsword’s reach was massive. In a last-ditch attempt to defend himself, the thug raised his sword to parry, but the black blade cut through it like through butter, taking his whole arm with it. Blood gushed out of Dalon’s stump as the man howled in pain. His horse reared and threw him off, and he slammed to the ground with a pained moan.

 

“Subtle as always, dear,” Anqi muttered from behind, but then pulled out his Fury, ready to cut down the remaining fools. The sight of two armed and clearly capable warriors made the rest of the thugs blanch.

 

“Which one of you is next?” Dorn pointed his bloodied sword at the old rider.

 

“Hey, Nester, isn’t that him?” the fat bandit whispered, staring right at them in sheer fright. The wrinkly man squinted hard.

 

“Aye,” he said, but he sounded less than pleased. If they knew Anqi by sight, it could only mean they were bounty hunters. His companion would be less than thrilled to learn they had already caught up to them, but Dorn relished the chance to work out his frustration. The old man, Nester, seemed to pick up on that. “He’s more than we can handle. Firenzo, you need to keep them busy while I’ll call the others.”

 

“W-what!? No way!” the fat man protested. Dorn was in no mood to listen to their squabble, or to the wailing of the thug bleeding out next to the wagon, which was spooking his horses. He was about to jump off and rush at the bandits when someone behind them yelled.

 

“There he is! The big one with the sword who’s driving the wagon. He threatened to murder me!” It was the pipe-smoking imbecile Dorn had spooked earlier, and with him atop dun steeds rode two city guards in tall, plumed helmets armed with gold-pointed spears and shields with blue dragon crests. At their sight, Nester swore and turned his horse around, kicking it hard. The fat man gave his fallen comrades one panicked look, then followed suit.

 

“Stay calm, I’ll take care of this,” Anqi whispered and put away his sword. Disappointed the bloodshed was over, Dorn did the same.

 

“I am perfectly calm,” he snapped back then sat down. Below them, the cries of the armless man were much quieter, but his friend was the one making all the noise now.

 

“Kelemvor have mercy! Dalon, can you hear me? You bastards! You  _monsters_! Hakka the Red will hear of this! He will hunt you down and make bloody necklaces out of your guts!”

 

“Shut it!” groaned Anqi and jumped onto Arno’s back as he was trying to pick himself up. The guards arrived a moment later and gave the two fallen thugs and the half-elf a passing look. Then they focused their attention and ire on Dorn.

 

“Don’t move, half-orc,” a pale elf with piercing blue eyes said, his voice sharp and cold.

 

“He isn’t moving,” countered Anqi, but was utterly ignored. The elf rode his horse in front of their mares, then examined the bandit on the ground. “Is this your doing?”

 

“Why no, he tripped and fell on his own blade,” Dorn replied, barely controlling his temper, his fist itching to break the moon elf’s perfectly straight nose. The guard responded swiftly by pointing his spear at him.

 

“You dare mock a member of the City Guard, savage!?”

 

“Hold yer horses, kind sir!” Anqi’s drunken merchant voice was back, and he waved the ornate scroll at the elf. “Them ruffians were going to take the property of  _Pasha_ Jazim yn Nalud el Karassar and we were merely defending it.” The bandit lying in the mud tried to protest, but the rogue stepped on his head and made him eat mud. “This one is with me, you see? Here’s our signed permit.”

 

The other guard took a look at the parchment, stroking his pointed black beard as he read. “It checks out. Lower your spear, Theren.”

 

“The half-orc could be that libertine’s newest bed-warmer, and I wouldn’t give a damn. You’re under arrest for attempted murder and public disturbance.” The moon elf brought his spear closer under Dorn’s chin. That was his mistake. Quick as a snake, Dorn grabbed it, and before the guard could thrust it into his neck, he crushed the shaft in his grip. The golden point fell to the muddy ground with a  _squelch_. “Why you—!” the moon elf bellowed.

 

“Theren, cease this at once!” The bearded guard rushed to the elf’s side to stop him from drawing his sword, then leaned close and whispered into his ear. Anqi exchanged a tense look with Dorn; killing rowdy bandits was one thing, but attacking guards was quite another, the half-orc knew. Using the merchant’s name had taken them this far, but there was a line even corruption couldn’t breach. If this was where it lay, he would have to take care not to cross it, lest he brought the wrath of yet another city on their heads. At least that’s what Anqi would have wanted. Dorn personally wouldn’t mind pushing the arrogant lightweight to his breaking point, then breaking a few of his bones afterwards.

 

The whispered conversation ended abruptly with the elf spitting at the ground, and dismounting to collect the armless Dalon, who whined at the rough manhandling. While the short-tempered guard cast a minor healing spell to slow down the bleeding from the thug’s stump, his comrade turned to Anqi, a big apologetic smile on his wide-cheeked, mahogany face. “Please forgive us for the misunderstanding,” he offered amiably, looking straight at Dorn, his friendliness feeling almost sincere. “ _Pasha_ Jazim el Karassar is widely known for creating opportunities for everyone, no matter the race or circumstance, and it’s a great thing to see one such as yourself being given the responsibility of protecting the good Master’s merchandise. We’ll leave you in peace, and take these robbers straight to prison.”

 

“Hey, wait a minute! What about him threatening to kill me? He drew his sword and walked straight at me,” the pipe-smoking peasant protested. The guard gave him a withering look.

 

“You’ve clearly mistaken this good man with another member of his race. I don’t take kindly to such close-minded attitude, so you better run along, before I change my mind and arrest you for wasting the precious time of the City Guard officers with your drivel.” The young man’s hazy eyes grew as large as eggs, but he got the message and trotted off, looking back over his shoulder at Dorn with confusion. The guard then returned Anqi’s scroll and cuffed Arno, who was trying to explain the situation, but only received a backhand for his trouble. The elf, whose prisoner was now passed out, threw him over his horse’s rump, then got back on, sending Dorn a venomous look, before riding off without a word. “Gentlemen,” his counterpart tipped his helmet, then followed at a much leisurely pace, making his captive run behind him tied to a rope.

 

“Rescued by a piece of paper; could this day get any worse?” Dorn grumbled.

 

“Fight smart, not hard,” Anqi said lightly, tapping his right temple with the scroll, then crossed the empty road to pick up Dalon’s scimitar that went flying with his arm. The rogue jerked the blade free from the grip of the discarded hand, then returned to the wagon. He sat next to Dorn, who snapped the reins and got them rolling through the bloody mud.

 

“I’ve seen one like this before. The innkeeper had it,” the half-orc said, glancing at the sword. Apart from the distinctive, but unremarkable red jewel that was definitely not a ruby decorating the crossguard, the grip was engraved with many tear-shaped stones, similar to the drops of blood surrounding the skull symbol of Bhaal. The blade was plain and a little dull in a few points. Dorn didn’t imagine Anqi would be keeping it for very long.

 

“The rider who almost ran over the kid at the inn had one too. A little friendly persuasion and the boy told me it was a scout from a local band of crooks checking in on one of their outposts. I didn't think much of it since we’ve dealt with the likes of them so many times before, but to think they’d actually know who we were…” He sighed unhappily. “Guess it’s fine that you’re in such a rush. It’s best we leave this city as soon as possible, one way or another before it’s Baldur’s Gate all over again.”

 

“The way that will allow us to pay back the innkeeper for the hospitality he showed us interests me in particular.”

 

Anqi didn’t argue, just shook his head, the corner of his lips twitching upwards. “I suppose I could use the chance to thank Friti for the disgusting piss he called wine. I still can’t shake the taste of it, nor the smell of his sweat.”

 

“I thought the wine wasn’t half bad.”

 

“That’s because you have horrible taste, except in weapons and men.”

 

Dorn raised an eyebrow at him. “I sometimes have doubts.”

 

Anqi did smile this time. “Don’t be so harsh on yourself; your greatswords match your rugged demeanour perfectly. Hey, could you stop for a moment?”

 

Dorn let the mockery slide with a soft groan and did as he was asked. A quick series of hand signs from his companion followed, and his other brow joined the first one in surprise, as he watched Anqi slip off the wagon and go around the back. With no warning, he lifted the tarp. A brown shadow burst out straight at him, and a high-pitched snarl followed, as the little girl from before attempted to evade capture, kicking and attempting to bite like some rabid animal. Anqi didn’t play her game and twisted her arms around her back, then pushed his forearm under her chin, strangling her to make her calm down. “Nice try, little lady, but you’ll have to do better next time if you wish to sneak up on me.” Dorn stared in surprise; he never noticed the dirty girl’s presence. “Now, I’m going to let go of your arms, and you’ll show me everything that’s inside your pockets, understand?”

 

The child kicked weakly and keened like a fox captured in a trap. “If she doesn’t, just flip her upside down and have it all fall out,” Dorn suggested. The girl’s eyes widened.

 

“Oh, so you do know what we’re saying? Treasure out, now,” Anqi demanded and pushed his arm farther up. Growling, she nodded and pulled out fistfuls of pearl and coral necklaces from one large, square pocket of her stained linen dress, and a tangle of thin, gold chains from the other one. “Very good. Now, do you know where the Merchant District is?”

 

“Anqi…”

 

“Remember aliases, Krusk. Aliases.”

 

“‘Krusk’? You’ve got another thing coming. Now throw this muddy thing away and let’s be off already. There's no time to waste.”

 

“A guide would come in handy, don’t you think?” the rogue asked with a smirk but didn’t wait for Dorn’s answer. “So, Merchant District, can you show us? If you do, you can keep one pocketful of treasures, deal?” The little thief’s mouth hung open and she nodded much more enthusiastically. “Right then, let’s get settled. You point the way, while I keep you comfortable.”

 

Dorn doubted her comfort was anywhere on Anqi’s list of priorities, as he climbed in the back and sat the girl on his thigh, holding her tightly by the midsection and arm. She screwed up her muddy face and tried to protest and wriggle free, but the half-elf didn’t budge. They rode in a slow trot, and when they reached the next intersection, the girl pointed straight. Anqi praised her but never let go, until she had taken them all the way from the stuffy wall-side roads to the more open, cobbled tracks leading north. Finally, after another fifteen minutes, they rode into an avenue running along a high, ornate fence, which they followed until they reached a gate wrought in the shape of Alaghôn’s dragon’s wings. A guard posted there looked at them queerly, and while Dorn handed him the scroll, Anqi retrieved the pocketful of golden chains, leaving the girl with the more valuable jewellery and let her off the wagon. She darted into the narrow alley between houses without a second glance. The guard let them through with a pleasant greeting, pointing out the cream-coloured flags in the distance as their destination. Anqi thanked him, then rejoined Dorn on the front seat.

 

“Now you look just like her,” he said, noting the brown smears on his companion’s vest.

 

“I guess I do,” was all the reply he got, as the half-elf quickly discarded the stained piece of clothing and pulled out a clean, loose-fitting, pale yellow linen shirt from his bag, leaving the laces in front undone. “This’ll have to do for now.”

 

It was a step up from the half-elf’s shifty merchant image. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you’re one of Ilmater’s bleeding hearts, giving away his wealth to the poor and the misfortunate.”

 

“A few pearl necklaces won’t make a difference for us, but for her, it might mean survival. I was fortunate to learn how to steal in the safety of Candlekeep, where most of my failures ended in a slap on the wrist, or chores in the library or the cellars. Her failure almost ended in her death, or worse.” Anqi’s mouth was pursed in concern, but the grimace transformed into a lopsided grin the moment he noticed Dorn watching him. “Besides, this was no charity—she performed a service and I paid her. An honest and legitimate business transaction.”

 

 _Say what you will—you gave her a hundredfold of what pointing out directions was worth_ , Dorn thought, but only grunted and turned his eyes to the road, which, for the first time since they arrived in the congested city, was wide and open enough not to worry about accidentally driving into something or someone. Most importantly, however, the cool breeze was back and, along with the shade created by spreading palm trees, it made the Merchant District a much-desired paradise, if wholly too opulent for his taste. Every way they looked, there were gilded fences surrounding sprawling mansions of different noble families, whose colourful crests were displayed on flags and banners, and emblazoned on the guards’ shields and wrought into the gates they were protecting. Elven-style spires met with the more traditional square architecture of the Turami humans, but even here, all of the buildings had the same gaudy colouring as they did in the peasant quarters.

 

On the street, men in flowing silk gowns and soft leather sandals accompanied similarly dressed women, who almost in all cases had their hair twisted into strange shapes and decorated with flowers. There was a sense of vapidity and leisure to the people here, and it made Dorn’s grim and worn out black armour and imposing weapon stick out like a sore thumb even more than his heavyset body and tusked face. Anqi fitted in much better, but then again, he did so anywhere they went, his ability to alter his personas as easily as a colour-changing ophidian, allowing him to fool anyone who never cared to look closer. Even the scars he attempted to hide weren’t enough to impede his deceptions. Before Dorn had learned of what really went through his companion’s devious head, and what kind of effort he put into deceiving people, he would have dismissed his likability and ease with which he could wrap people around his fingers as either their foolishness or his natural good looks, charisma or luck. Close to four years of being by his side had taught him to see the way he used his masks the same way as he used his blades—parrying attacks, opening his enemies and dealing finishing blows with merely a word or a look. Dorn preferred his own straightforward style, but he had grown to appreciate and rely on the much more subtle way one could use their body that Anqi had mastered; a nod of his head here, a wave of a hand there, a grin, a chuckle. It had opened his eyes to so many ways one could exert power over others by means other than brute force or magic. It also made him much keener at spotting signs of such attempts aimed at him by people they'd encountered, and the sheer number of times he had been on the receiving end of manipulations over the years was staggering. It had been over a decade since he last allowed such things to hurt him, but it only helped to fuel his hatred of the supposedly superior races, who saw in him nothing more than a beast to be denied or used.

 

The Karassar Trading Company was known for dealing with all sorts of races, and, according to the overly friendly guard, happy to hire any of them as well, but the guards at Jazim el Karassar’s gold and iron gates regarded him with the same suspicion like any other bigots.

 

“Remember: I had introduced myself to Jazim as Abdel Altares. You’re my business partner, Krusk,” Anqi said in a whisper.

 

“I said no!” Dorn snapped, more flustered than upset, but since they were arriving at the entryway, with the guards on the move, he would deal with the rogue’s gall after they were through.

 

“Welcome back, sir,” the older of the sentries greeted Anqi, another dark-skinned Turami in his forties, who wore an eyepatch over his right eye and a few-days-old stubble. He wore a golden helmet in the shape of a screeching eagle’s head adorned with a long, purple plume, gold enamelled chainmail, boots and gauntlets, and a cream-coloured cape. Dorn had learned these were the Karassar colours the first time he and Anqi had met the lordling and his three-man guard detail in the harbourside tavern he owned. On the guard's chest was emblazoned the family symbol: a proud, purple griffon spreading its wings, and in its claws a twig of basil. This guard didn’t require the signed parchment and waved them through right away, offering Dorn a forced smile. On the other side, a blond elf held the gate open; as the wagon rolled in, he looked the half-orc up and down but had the sense to keep any opinions he had of him to himself. Further inside they passed gardeners at work who waved hello, and servants who bowed then scampered along the winding paths of the expansive gardens, as far away from the grim looking guest as they could. The greenery stretched far beyond what one would expect from a front yard, completely obscuring the vast, two-storied estate painted in the Karassar colours. With cream walls, purple and gold spiral columns and golden roof tiles, the whole building shone garishly like the scales of a gold dragon basking in the evening sun on a bed of palm trees and succulents. In front of the grand doors to the mansion stood a massive fountain shaped in the image of a prancing griffon. Water spouting from its beak in an arc created a colourful mist that made its golden and cream body sparkle as if under the Prismatic Ray spell, which fit the larger-than-life Karassar household's gaudiness. A congregation of guards in full armour and a gaggle of young servants wearing airy purple gowns were lined up by the wide stairs, atop which the author of the immoderate welcoming display awaited with his arms wide open.

 

A slim, flax-haired boy no older than twelve, who wore the same kind of gown as the girls, ran up to the wagon and took the reins from Dorn, as the half-orc jumped off onto the cream and golden-coloured gravel. He groaned inwardly, and then out loud when the master of the estate bound downstairs and caught Anqi in the customary Turami embrace, which was much too affectionate in Dorn’s opinion. Being a man from Calimshan, Dorn would have expected their host to show a little more restraint towards someone of foreign descent, and especially when dealing with the companion of someone standing right next to him, but then he remembered they were playing the roles Anqi had assigned them—business partners and nothing more—and ignored the display. Imagining breaking the man’s arms would have to do, for now, he decided. “Welcome! So good to see my favourite  _gharab_. I was beginning to worry some misfortune had found you, and that I’d never have the pleasure of seeing you again. And your partner,” the dusky brown man added, giving Dorn barely a glance, then nodded to the load on the wagon. ”I can see your venture was fruitful?”

 

“Thank you,  _Pasha_ el Karassar, very much so. I’m sure you’ll be pleased,” Anqi said using his own voice, but the way he spoke did not sit well with Dorn; too subservient, too… familiar.

 

“No doubt, but oh, let’s dispense with these names and titles; you and Oesman are practically family now. Please call me by my name, and allow me to call you by yours.”

 

Dorn had to stifle a disgusted chortle at Saemon Havarian’s new and even more pitiful moniker, then remember his own was as deplorable. He would have to remember to react to it.  _Krusk. Terrible_. “If you don’t mind, Jazim, we’ve had a very long and strenuous journey and your servants seem to be itching to serve,” Dorn told the lordling, not bothering to mask his irritation at everything about the man, starting from the vain show of wealth to the man’s overwhelming perfume that threatened to make his eyes water.

 

There was an unmissable glint of irritation in Jazim’s brown eyes before he threw his head back to guffaw. Dorn was certain Anqi caught it as well, but the half-elf joined in the mirth, while most of the serving staff shifted, looking to one another in discomfort. The guards stiffened, on the other hand, flexing their hands on their sword grips. “You,  _mameluk_ ,” the Calishite shook a finger at him. Dorn didn’t know what the foreign word meant, but he could tell by the way Jazim said it, he would not like it. Yet he stuck to the plan and did nothing about the potential insult. “I remember you scowling at me when we first met as if I were some horned demon sent from Hell to do you harm. Very bold, very refreshing, don’t you think so?” He laughed again, motioning for his entourage to cheer up. The serving girls plastered on strained smiles, while the guards nodded in agreement, relaxing their stances. Jazim patted Dorn on the arm, then climbed the stairs, inviting them to follow. “Well, come along then. Feel at home and let me assure you, Anqi and Dorn Il-Khan, that my servants will dazzle you or die trying!” He chuckled and clapped his hands, ordering the silk-clad maids to run back inside.

 

Next to him, Anqi froze, a look of panic flashing on his features, before he schooled it into one of surprise. Dorn didn’t bother with the nuance.

 

Noticing he and Anqi weren’t following, Jazim glanced back at them, then gasped and tapped his forehead like a forgetful child. “That’s right! Oesman warned me this might happen when he revealed your real identities, but I can assure you there is absolutely nothing to fear—within these walls your real names are utterly safe. Most of my serving staff don’t speak Common beyond simple commands, and those who do are loyal to the bone and will take any secret they hear to his or her grave.”

 

Dorn was just considering sending all of them there, and then putting the whole ridiculous estate to the torch; if Anqi willed it, he would get to it without even a word of argument about the idiocy of trusting a pirate in the first place. But his companion was stubbornly sticking to his role. “So it was Oesman who told you? Were you not surprised?”

 

The merchant approached the rogue and wrapped his arm around his shoulder. “That I’m dealing with the famous and fearsome Scourge of the Sword Coast, Anqi the Bhaalspawn himself? Naturally! Thrilled, actually! Our mutual friend has really outdone himself bringing you to me. The things we can share and discuss—oh, I cannot wait!”

 

“Let’s not tarry then,” Anqi chuckled, but his eye burned with something akin to Dorn’s own urge to snap someone’s neck. Luckily for Jazim, he released the half-elf before the fallen blackguard lost his composure, and led them inside the carpeted lobby, then even further down a long corridor that felt like a gaping maw of some fragrant and enticing beast.

 

As they walked down the hall, Dorn lowered his head to his companion’s ear stiffly and muttered, pouring all the emotions boiling inside of him into his words, “Argue all you want, but next time I see Havarian, I swear to all the Gods in Heaven and demons in Hell, there’s nothing that can stop me from tearing that traitorous scum apart.”

 

For once, Anqi did not try to make excuses for the pirate.

 


	3. The Master's Sly Meddling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saemon Havarian's usual antics have put Anqi and Dorn in an awkward situation, yet Pasha Jazim doesn't seem to mind. He invites the two to his mansion to discuss their deal, but is that all the wealthy merchant has planned?
> 
> *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

As Jazim's guards were removing the coffers full of the plundered treasure from their sight, Jazim sang Anqi's praises for the third time since they arrived in his mansion. “I knew as soon as I'd learned that I had the pleasure of dealing with the famous Scourge of the Sword Coast that you would do a splendid job, but this amount of treasure is even beyond what I had anticipated!”

 

Anqi didn’t appreciate the young merchant’s dull brown-nosing efforts but put on a toothy smile nonetheless. Dorn remained scowling, as he had been ever since they’d been shown into the dimly-lit and lavishly furnished parlour. As the guards exited through the ornate archway, two young and barely clothed boys slipped inside and started playing the flute and harp in the corner of the room. The tune was soft yet catchy, one that could rival those of many a skilled bard Anqi had encountered during his travels. “You are too kind, Jazim. The plunder was only successful thanks to the efforts of the group you’ve suggested,” he said, trying to sound just enthusiastic enough to keep the rich lord pleased with himself. Judging by his shining and oiled braids, a fragrant beard expertly trimmed to form a square, as well as gleaming and manicured nails, vanity was no doubt one of the man’s greatest vices. Although perhaps his obtuseness trumped how vain he was; every time Anqi shifted away from him, Jazim found a way to pursue him on the luxurious ottoman where they were seated, completely unaware of Dorn’s growing frustration. Anticipating the situation would have turned this way, Anqi had whispered a few words of encouragement into his partner’s ear before they entered the stuffy parlour, hoping the promise of an intimate night would keep his jealousy in check. It had been working so far, but he could sense the tension growing between the three of them, and not even the seemingly unlimited supply of cooled, sweet wine could help soothe his increasing anxiety. Dorn, too, was hard-pressed to enjoy the lavish feast Jazim had thrown for them, ignoring the mouth-watering stuffed quails, intensely spicy kebabs and surprisingly drinkable ale. In all probability, his lover was busy considering ways he might end their host’s life. And if Jazim didn’t stop scooching toward him any time soon, Anqi might start doing the same.

 

Oblivious to their dark thoughts, the jovial merchant took another sip from his crystal glass, then called a serving girl over to refill it. She detached herself from a group of them standing by the wall and ran to attend to her master in silence. “Brammin Redtooth is a bit of a miser, but he does know his dungeon crawling. I do hope your friend Dorn, here, didn’t find him too brusque.”

 

There was a joke right at the tip of Anqi’s tongue, but his partner cut him off with a grunt. “He was a sod," Dorn said in a half-growl, making the serving girl jump. "But in the end, he was just as soft as the rest of our former companions, so we left him and his motley crew in pieces.”

 

“In _peace_ , my dear friend meant. And with their well-deserved share,” Anqi added quickly, throwing the half-orc an irritated glance. _Perfect time for you to discover a sense of humour, damn you_ , he wanted his gaze to say. Jazim, however, just smiled and chuckled, showing off his impeccable straight, white teeth.

 

“Excellent, excellent,” he said, carelessly waving his bejewelled hand at Dorn. “Girls, don’t just stand there and gawk like a herd of calves. Attend my accomplished guests.”

 

Two servers darted from their spots against the walls, tiptoeing in haste over the plush carpet, each carrying a flagon as big as their heads. The oldest one was most likely of local descent and couldn’t have been more than fifteen, but the rest looked barely over ten. Skinny little things, their ethnicity ranged from a pale Illuskan girl with blond hair heading over to Anqi, to a tall, ebony-skinned future-heartbreaker Chultan, whose curly hair bounced as she bent over the table to refill Dorn’s discarded glass. Anqi lifted his gilded cup to help the petite blonde with her task, but she averted her blue and brown eyes when he smiled at her. That didn’t surprise, nor offend him—even mostly concealed, the left side of his face could leave a strong first impression, especially to someone so young. The girl was doing a good job keeping her composure as it was, so he thanked her and watched her scamper a few paces away, smiling. Jazim noticed his look and, scooting over as if to follow his eye, let out a pleased sigh.

 

“Aren’t they adorable, my _jhasinnar_? They make this mansion feel like a home. Without them fluttering about, the loneliness I feel every time I remember the concubines I’ve left in Calimport would no doubt overwhelm me.”

 

“Why not bring them over? I’m sure it wouldn’t be a problem for someone in your position,” said Anqi, feigning interest. In truth, there was nothing he wanted to listen to less than the pushy lordling’s heart troubles.

 

“Ah, but that would make trysts with the many lovely friends I’ve made here a problem, you see? My father is rather old-fashioned, and he’d make eunuchs of the men I’ve been seeing, while the women he’d order me to marry. I’ve four wives already and any more would be excessive, I think, so I’d rather the word of my current exploits not reach his wrinkly ears.”

 

Barely over twenty years of age, married four times and with who knows how many lovers in Alaghôn, and a private garden of almost ready-to-be plucked servants—Anqi was almost as impressed as he was appalled. No wonder the room had a shocking amount of obscene paintings and statues of people copulating in poses Anqi never imagined, and all the serving boys had on were tiny pieces of see-through material that barely covered their genitals. He took a large gulp of the wine and shifted away again. “I see,” he said, finding himself at a loss for words for the first time in a long while. He looked to Dorn, who was in the middle of ripping a stuffed quail apart with his bare hands, its delicate bones crunching in his vice-like fingers. “The heart wants what the heart wants,” he heard himself mutter, then, startled by Jazim’s clap on his shoulder, twisted his head back to face him.

 

“You read my mind, my friend! My father should know better than to be so strict since I and my four brothers are not his only children.”

 

“You can never please fathers. I’d stopped trying to please mine years ago.”

 

“Exactly! We are of the same mind!” Jazim exclaimed, his brown eyes shining with excitement. Or perhaps it was the alcohol. He waved for another refill, but this time Anqi refused the offer—his head was already swimming from the four cups of the delicious beverage, and they still hadn’t discussed the details of their deal, and for that, he needed his wits about him. Jazim himself had another glassful, half of which he drained right away. Then, after he set the glass on the table, he accidentally brushed his hand against Anqi’s as he leaned over to him, and continued to talk, his mellow voice suddenly brimming with melancholy. “My heart is so vast one person cannot simply fill it alone. That’s why I love to meet new people, but, if I may make a confession, lately I have grown fatigued by the city’s crowd. Sad to have come to such a point so near the festival dedicated to celebrating love, but as you said, one cannot control one’s heart.”

 

Were Anqi alone with the merchant, the pathetic attempt at flirtation would be the perfect opportunity to lead him on even further; by accepting the physical contact, he could easily paint himself as the desperate crook eager to please the one man who was willing to give him a fair shot at success. At least that used to be the plan until it was slightly upset by Saemon spilling the truth, but Anqi was nothing if flexible. With a bit of tweaking of the persona he wanted to present to the merchant, he could have him wrapped around his finger in no time.

 

With Dorn sitting right there, however, he wished he could throw caution to the wind and toss the contents of his glass in Jazim’s handsome face for being so blatant. He’d then walk out, find the first available inn and give his partner his due and then some just so he could avoid Dorn splitting the man in two for having the gall to touch Anqi in his presence. That would prevent the risk of wasting not only the past two hours of listening to the lordling’s self-centred and mind-numbing small talk but, most importantly, the couple weeks of planning beforehand and the tens of thousands of gold pieces they had just given away. Only by some miracle, his lover had not yet drawn his sword, but it seemed he could stand the provocation no longer. He rose from his seat nudging his ottoman slightly back. Even without his armour on his broad shoulders, his hulking silhouette dwarfed Jazim’s slim build, which was more akin to Anqi’s half-elven and naturally scrawnier body. Dorn looming with such murderous intent usually gave larger men pause, yet the merchant did not seem intimidated in the slightest, calmly taking another sip of his wine. From the corner of his eye, the rogue spotted the two pairs of guards posted by the archways grip their swords.

 

“All you’ve done so far is run your mouth about inconsequential drivel! We’re here for business, so let’s get to it,” Dorn demanded.

 

“I was under the impression it was Anqi who was interested in working with me, not you. If the pace of our conversation displeases you, I can have my servants escort you to your chamber where you may refresh yourself at your own leisure,” Jazim said pleasantly, staring Dorn defiantly in the eye, a feat only a few had accomplished and lived to tell the tale. Whether it was courage or ignorance, Anqi couldn’t quite tell.

 

“I’m not leaving him alone, and he’s only here to negotiate the details of your offer, so out with it already." Dorn glared at Anqi, and the rogue could see the barely held back outrage in his partner's eyes. He knew he was running out of time. "And since we’re at it, where, in all Hells, is Saemon Havarian?”

 

Dorn’s raised voice made the guards flinch, but Jazim waved them to stand down. Then he gestured the ottoman on the other side of the table. Anqi rolled his eyes at the silent display of power, but then motioned for his partner to sit as well, trying not to imagine the wrath he’d have to face later for forcing Dorn to suffer through this shameful farce. His partner did heed him, however, so there was a chance he was still not quite at his limit.

 

“Saemon Havarian…? Do you mean Oesman?” Anqi nodded. “I see all of you like your aliases,” Jazim sighed, unperplexed. “Well, regardless of what he’s called, I’m afraid he’s not around. He’s off fetching Anqi’s ship from another port and should be here by this time tomorrow.”

 

The rumbling coming from Dorn’s chest was all he had to say to that complication. The half-elf was sure to hear the rest of it later in private. To his host, he said, “That’s fine. What about the crew? The cargo? When would you like me to sign the contract?”

 

“That’s all been arranged. Before we sign, I’d like you to meet the people I’ve personally picked to accompany you so you can judge whether they’re to your liking. They’re all excellent sailors who know a bit more about the rougher side of the trade,” Jazim said with a wink. Anqi cocked his head, to show how interested he was. “You’ll meet four of them first—they are already in town. Then, once they arrive, I’ll arrange a meeting with the other five Oesman is bringing with him. Together with our mutual friend, you’ll have a skilled crew of ten. With you and your… partner, that will make twelve. And yours truly to make it a lucky thirteen.”

 

“You!?” This time Dorn knocked the ottoman back as he rose abruptly. Anqi shot up as well, but only to intercept his partner’s arm and pull him aside, before he grabbed Jazim by the collar of his richly embroidered tunic and began strangling him there and then.

 

“Trust me, this isn’t as bad as you think,” Anqi whispered, feeling Dorn’s muscles tensing under his fingertips.

 

“This is over,” his partner snapped at him and yanked his arm free. He turned to Jazim, who was watching them with great interest and, judging by the satisfied grin hiding in the corners of his overly shiny lips, amusement. “Being employed by a pampered milk-drinker like you is one thing, but to have you getting in our way while we’re out on the sea is out of the question.”

 

“I assure you, I’d be less of a burden to the crew than you give me credit for; I’d most certainly be more at home on a ship than you, judging by what Oesman had told me of your previous voyages together.”

 

Anqi could taste murder in the air. He jumped in front of his partner once again, this time unsure whether he could quell Dorn’s rage with just his words. “Don’t,” he ordered, pushing his hands and forehead against the poised warrior’s hard chest, which smelled of ale and few-days-old sweat.

 

“Speak to me like that again, merchant, and I swear, I will rip the tongue out of that insult-spewing mouth of yours and send it back to your father.”

 

“Dorn,” Anqi warned. He empathised with his partner completely, but threatening most nobles, especially in their homes, usually ended with someone being put in chains. He would rather keep Jazim’s name as their get-out-of-jail card, rather than see it signed on their arrest warrant. “Leave it to me, please. I’ll be done soon and then we’ll head to an inn.”

 

“Now that is out of the question,” the merchant said and clapped his hands. Anqi was about to strangle the man himself—was Jazim really that cocksure in his cosy palace to believe he could provoke a furious half-orc warrior without deadly consequences? “Please, tell your friend I meant no harm and that I’m willing to make reparations, starting with inviting you both to stay in my home, at least for tonight. I have dozens on fully furnished bedchambers you can use, and baths you can enjoy. I understand you must be tired from the journey and could use some quiet time to yourselves.” That last bit felt like a jab directed at his partner, but given the predicament of keeping both his plan and Jazim’s neck intact, sending Dorn away seemed like the best option. He gave his half-orc a beseeching look and was relieved to see the fire in his eyes dim.

 

“I’ll make this right, trust me,” he whispered into the wide chest swaying from heavy breathing. Without as much as a grunt, Dorn withdrew, and the suddenly cool evening air churned in front of Anqi’s flushed face. Dorn crossed the parlour to an ornate dresser where they had placed their weapons before they had joined Jazim on the ottomans. He threw his sword on his back, then turned to glower at the line of servers by the wall.

 

“Is any of these dull-eyed dolls going to show me to a room, or do I need an armed escort?” he growled. At Jazim’s wave, the Chultan girl who had attended Dorn previously detached herself from her spot and scuttled towards her master, her hair bouncing rhythmically, and the gold bangles around her wrists and ankles clinking in her haste.

 

"Jholzi, take our guest to his chambers," he said softly. Jholzi gave him a deep bow and approached Dorn. She gestured for him to join her, trying with all her might to seem welcoming, but from the way she squashed her lips together in a parody of a smile, Anqi could tell she was terrified. Dorn ignored her efforts and, without another word, stomped outside, with the girl scrambling to keep up. Jazim then called another of the servers and the blond girl attended him at once. "Mia, find Ingwe and tell her I will require the Red Chamber tonight," he said in a subtle tone. Mia blinked at him in surprise. He lifted a perfectly maintained brow at her, which got her scrambling off to do as she was bid. Anqi never noticed the music had stopped before Jazim commanded it to resume. The man himself sipped his wine, utterly relaxed. “When Oesman told me I’d be dealing with the Bhaalspawn and his right-hand man, I was prepared to be thrilled, but to be threatened in my own home? Ha, definitely a new experience for me!”

 

_What’s wrong with this man?_ Anqi wondered. He lifted the seat Dorn had knocked over and sat back down in his old spot close to Jazim—now that they were alone, he had no reason not to take advantage of his host's forwardness. “Allow me to apologise for my partner—he’s very protective of me and our affairs, but I’d advise not to poke him like that again.”

 

“Oh, it was a bit of fun. I’m sure my guards would have prevented anything too unpleasant from happening.”

 

_Before they got Dorn off you, he would’ve crushed your neck and let your wagging tongue bloody your priceless carpet._ “Still, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t. It was hard enough to get him to come here; this climate doesn’t agree with him, you see, but he did it for my sake anyway.”

 

“Just the climate?” Jazim smirked, tugging at his square-shaped beard emblematic of the Turami merchants. He also had three dots on his forehead drawn in chalk, a customary indication of a person’s abilities; three meant you could read, write and use magic, but so far his host had not shown off the latter skill. He’d boasted about many other things from writing and performing music to being an art connoisseur, and Anqi wondered whether he had put that last dot on for show. “I’d say your half-orc friend doesn’t like us bonding, but I’m sure there are a great many things we could discuss without him, how to say it, dragging the conversation down. Music, perhaps, or art? I did notice you eyeing the paintings in the hallways and this room, and I assure you, this is but a modest sample of my extensive collection. I’m aware that a person like your friend might not be familiar with the more sophisticated things in life, given his lineage, not that I’d ever hold that against him, of course. I’m certain there are things he’d be quick to enlighten me about like decapitation or some blood ritual in honour of his orcish gods, but just because we are from completely different worlds doesn’t mean we must fight over a mutual friend.” The merchant finished his monologue with a tip of his glass. Anqi imagined smashing his own on his head. Instead, he licked his lips, his tongue poking at the groove on the left side, and grabbed a grape from a great fruit platter located at the far end of the table. It was sweeter than any he had ever tasted before—too sweet, in fact, and sticky, just like the merchant’s whole spiel. Anqi was about to sour it a whole lot.

 

“Possessiveness is only natural when one sees another man flirting so openly with one’s husband, don’t you think?”

 

Jazim sputtered, spilling his wine down the front of his tunic. He snapped his fingers as he wiped his chin, and two servants attended him with a washcloth, while another fetched spare clothes from a grand mahogany wardrobe located in the far corner of the parlour. It was a burgundy wrap shirt studded with rubies and emeralds that hugged the merchant’s body snugly and left a good part of his hairless chest exposed. Along with the coal around his eyes, the meticulously braided hair decorated with golden rings and the wide garnet choker around his toned neck, Jazim looked like a prince. Anqi’s itch to smash his glass in his face intensified. “Please excuse this hasty display; I do hate the feeling of soggy clothes on my skin, and you really surprised me. I never expected the two of you would be like… that.”

 

“Truly?" Anqi asked in an innocent tone, feigning great surprise and cherishing the effect his revelation had on his host. "It’s strange that Saemon hadn’t mentioned it along with what he’d already spilt. And we are most certainly, as you put it, 'like that'. It won’t be a problem, I hope?” He batted his eye and watched the merchant’s reaction closely. Most of his past comrades had sooner or later expressed their bewilderment at his taste in men; strangers were usually much less subtle about it, but there was nothing in Jazim’s face that indicated disgust. On the contrary, he seemed surprisingly sheepish, which was the last reaction Anqi expected of the brash merchant.

 

“Sharess tempt me, no!” the younger man laughed. “If I had known this about you, I would have never held the feast in this room; why I feel utterly ashamed I’ve exposed you to all these breasts, while I have an alternate parlour that would suit your tastes much better. All you girls, get out! Get the boys to replace you immediately,” he ordered with a clap.

 

“That won’t be necessary,” Anqi interrupted, flustered, before the servants had the chance to run off. “My tastes don’t extend beyond the bedroom and your servers are perfectly adequate. Let’s just stick to business.”

 

Dejected, Jazim leaned back on the leather seat. “Business, of course. It’s so easy to forget you’re a midwesterner with your southern looks—always rushing and only ever concerned with work. Was your mother from Calimshan? Half-elves are a minority there, but your sharp cheekbones and the way your upper lip curves reminds me of the traders that Father had dealings with.”

 

“I wouldn’t know. She was killed when I was an infant, but what characteristics I possess, I most likely inherited from her; I’ve been accused of acting like my father, but never once have I been told I look like the God of Murder,” Anqi answered sharply, then remembered he had a part to play, however little he wanted to play it at the moment. The sooner he got away from the merchant’s sordid games the better, but he couldn’t leave before learning more of his intent to join his crew. “My heritage aside, how come you wish to personally involve yourself with smuggling drugs? You’d be taking an enormous risk if the ship was to be searched, or attacked by pirates. Surely, there are better ways for someone as wealthy and well-connected as you to find… excitement.”

 

“You are frightfully keen, just like Oesman said. Nothing gets past that stunning eye of yours,” Jazim leered, tongue flicking to his plump lips. “Before your, ah, husband interrupted me, I mentioned how fatigued I was with the very beautiful, yet dull company I usually keep, and it’s been my intention to broaden my horizons, so to speak. Our mutual friend had me intrigued when he mentioned you and your quest to find powerful artefacts, which reminded me of the books I used to read as a boy. Have you come across the tales of Coerilos Blackscale, by chance? They captured my imagination when I was young, and now, for the first time in years, I feel like doing something as wild and daring as one of his adventures. And what better opportunity to do so than in the company of a notorious man like the Scourge of the Sword Coast?”

 

The mention of his beloved book character surprised Anqi so much that his anger evaporated almost entirely. Of course, someone like Jazim who’d been brought up in luxury and educated since early childhood would have been well read, and the popular _Blackscale: The Sea of the Fallen Stars Voyage Log_ series would have no doubt been prime reading material for any wealthy young master. Living in a great library that was Candlekeep himself, Anqi had access to all sorts of books, but out of all he had been made to study—or had smuggled out to read in secret—Coerilos’ adventures had been his favourite. Like Jazim, they had inspired him to look to the horizon beyond the fortress’ stifling walls and learn how to wield two swords and balance on a line. Cartwheels, flips, wall jumps—of all of his acrobatic skills he'd learned from reading the pirate’s adventures, and for once he could not blame the merchant for succumbing to the exciting imagery the _Log’s_ author had created. The nostalgia got him riled up for a moment before he forced a neutral expression back on his face, but the slip in character did not go unnoticed.

 

“You do know these books, don’t you? I knew you would!” Jazim grabbed his hand, too caught up in his own excitement to wait for a reply. “Just one look and I knew you and I were birds of a feather. Think about it: just like Coerilos relied on his sorceress first mate Lalanda Hawker, you will have me by your side. I’ve not been practising magic for very long, but my warlock instructor has told me I’ve been making incredible progress. I’m confident I’d be the perfect addition to your crew. And there are also the hundreds of songs I can play; lute, harp, fiddle, you name it. I’d make our voyages as enjoyable as Blackscale’s.”

 

Overwhelmed by the sudden heartfelt confession, Anqi searched for the right response while trying to wriggle his hand free. “Saemon is a mage. And he’s an experienced spellcaster and sailor,” he reminded the merchant at last. _And what need have I for a singer with Dorn around?_

 

“You will have us both, then. Or, if need be, I’ll find another captain; Oesman didn’t seem that invested in actually helming your ship anyway.”

 

“He didn’t?” That wasn’t what Havarian had told Anqi, but then again, he could be playing Jazim just as much as the half-elf was. Once the pirate returned, Anqi would have to sit him down and have a nice, long chat to find out what else he’d been doing behind his and Dorn’s backs other than disclosing their personal details to excitable lordlings. “Still, it would be dangerous. If word got out the _pasha_ of the Karassar Trading Company was travelling the sea without protection, we’d have all sorts of cutthroats after us, hoping to kidnap you for ransom.”

 

“I’ll bring protection then. The ship I’ve chosen for you can fit plenty more bodies aboard in case you ever intended to expand beyond the current crew so there will be room for a few of my house guards.” Noting Anqi’s grimace, he added, “I would, of course, have to return to Alaghôn sooner or later; as much as I’d love to get out from under Father’s thumb, I’m not foolish enough to throw all of this away.” He motioned to the room and the food.

 

Spotting the light of hope at the end of a tunnel, Anqi beelined for it. “So, this would be like a trip, then?”

 

Jazim squeezed his hand, his thumb running over the rogue’s wrist before withdrawing completely. He picked up his glass and urged Anqi to do the same. “Most nobles like their pleasure cruises—I’ll get my joy from reenacting my childhood fantasies along with a renowned fugitive from the west. We can consider it my rebellious stage. What do you say?”

 

Anqi wanted to argue more, but he decided to let Jazim have this round. Everything and anything could change from now until the time of departure, and a little more improvising would not pose a problem. He clinked his glass with Jazim’s and drained the dregs of his wine. With an expiration date on his selfish notion, a few months with the merchant on board his ship would not be that impossible to deal with. If he managed the crew right, he could possibly make it so Dorn would never have to lay eyes on him. He would sleep in their private cabin, and then conduct his activities at night, the moonlight less harsh on his eyes than the glaring sun. They could also arrange a few minor scuffles to scare the merchant; nothing made naive and pampered loudmouths deflate their bravado as seeing a dead body for the first time. Everything about Jazim screamed that he was only curious about the enjoyable aspects of adventuring, the parts writers romanticised in their lighthearted books. But as soon as he smelled fresh blood and heard the wails of the dying, the young man would turn back into a boy, and his taste for danger would transform into disgust. And there was no one better to demonstrate how brutal real bloodshed was than Dorn.

 

With the biggest problem hammering itself out, Anqi could focus more easily on ingratiating himself to the merchant by continuing their discussion of the books they had in common. But while time trickled away in pleasant conversation, in the back of his mind, he was preparing for the inevitable confrontation with his partner. He would have to win it at all cost if he had any hope of achieving his lifetime goal. Coming up with a way to talk Dorn into this 'folly', as he would no doubt call it, also helped him get away from the handsy merchant mentally. The rogue was already past his limit where it came to physical contact, and the ignorant delusions of grandeur and the way Jazim flaunted his wealth and status over him by offering him more to eat and drink, and boasting of his many possessions, was quickly becoming too much to bare as well. It was a convenient way to learn of the merchant’s assets and how he liked to conduct his business, yes, and there was no denying Jazim was a skilled conversationalist, but Anqi wanted nothing more than to get away from the stuffy atmosphere, and ease his body and mind in the strong embrace of his lover.

 

*

 

Another hour dragged by before Anqi managed to talk himself out of a tour around Jazim’s gallery wing of the mansion and asked to retire for the night. His host summoned the flaxen-haired boy Anqi remembered from the yard and told him to bring the half-elf to the Red Chamber, promising it was the most luxurious of his guest rooms. He urged him to try some of his oils when he decided to bathe, but by that point, Anqi was already following the servant and no longer listening to the prattle. Quietly, the boy guided him down a number of identical hallways decorated with more paintings of beautiful men and women frolicking in various meadows and forests. This time, Anqi noted with relief, they were at least clothed, if barely. What was going through Jazim’s head to display these kinds of pictures was no longer a mystery, but he wondered whether all rich young men were this insatiable and one-track-minded. He usually did not care to mentor those younger than him—for all he cared, brats needed to learn the bitter taste of life on their own—but perhaps a few rough months sailing on a smuggling vessel would do Jazim some good, and teach him about more than what he can put his prick into.

 

The young servant took another turn into a long hallway, and Anqi realised he had no idea where he was in relation to the mansion’s exit or even the room he’d just left. There was no discernable airflow so he assumed he was somewhere deep within the sprawling building, and the decor never changed much except for the contents of the priceless paintings on the walls and the shades of lush carpets under his feet. The servant seemed to know where he was going, however, so Anqi had no choice but to let him lead the way through two more corridors until they stopped right in the middle of a short hall, and in front of a lone pair of doors. Unlike all the wooden ones they’d passed along the way, these doors were wrought in iron, with red stained glass worked in between the metal bars that were twisted into spirals. The boy huffed as he threw them open and beckoned Anqi inside with a well-trained flourish. The rogue thanked him out of habit but remembered they boy probably didn’t understand what he was saying; he had a suspicion someone like Jazim rarely uttered words of gratitude to servants so it would be hard for the children to pick up on them. His musings about the language barrier were quickly dispelled, however, when he took note of the luxury on display. To the far left was a canopy bed big enough to fit five, adorned with feather pillows and red silks. The carpet was a thick woollen masterpiece depicting another scene of debauchery, and in each corner of the spacious room stood bronze statues of muscular and well-endowed prancing satyrs playing on their pan pipes. There was a fifth figure located next to the archways that doubled as entryways to another garden—a dancing voluptuous woman balancing two burning braziers, with a cat frolicking about her feet. The goddess of hedonism, the Lustful Mistress Sharess, he presumed. There were more candles lit around the room, and only now, seeing the black sky outside did Anqi notice how late it had become. It was also much cooler here than in the stuffy parlour—the palm trees outside rustled from strong gusts of wind that was blowing past the drawn sheer golden curtains, making the fire dance and crackle in the goddess’ hands. A storm was coming, and despite having to rely on the hospitality of a boorish snob, he was glad for the roof over his head.

 

All this opulence, however, was simply too much for Anqi's simpler tastes, but he doubted complaining to the servant would bear any fruit. Ignorant of the rogue’s discomfort, the boy walked past him to the archway on the left. “Bath,” he said in a squeaky voice, motioning for Anqi to follow.

 

“So you can speak Common?” Anqi smirked at the little blonde and joined him to take a quick peek inside. As he imagined, the bathroom was as luxurious as the bedroom, with dark marble on the floor and the bath almost as big as the bed, already filled with steaming water. A strong smell of cinnamon filled the humid air, and Anqi's body yearned to take a dip immediately. But in all this excess there was one, crucial element missing. “Where is my partner?”

 

The boy raised his fine brows in surprise, then frowned when Anqi repeated the question. “Bath,” he said again, unsure. Anqi frowned. “Bed?” The boy ran back to the front room and gestured to the pillows. The rogue clicked his tongue, guided him out into the hallway, then shut the Red Chamber’s door behind them.

 

“Where is Dorn? Big, strong,” he said, showing the height and width of Dorn’s body with sweeping arm gestures. When the boy continued to gawk at him, as if Anqi had sprouted a second head, Anqi brought two fingers to the corners of his mouth and growled.

 

“Ah!” the servant gasped and pointed at him, nodding enthusiastically. The rogue was glad the boy wasn’t completely dim, but he promised himself he would never mention the mimicry he had to resort to anyone, especially not to his partner.

 

“Where is he? I want to see him,” Anqi continued with the charades, scratching his head and looking around as if he’d lost something. The boy seemed to understand, but his frown had turned troubled and he started explaining something to him in Turmic. Having to rely on barely a handful of words he’d picked up, the half-elf could only understand ‘sleep’ along with Jazim’s title. The rest, he deduced from the servant’s apologetic expression, guessing the boy wasn’t supposed to take him to see Dorn. Whatever games the merchant was playing, Anqi wasn’t going to take part. He turned on his heel and marched back the way he came, hoping he would be able to make it back to tell the sly lordling not to take him for a fool.

 

“Please! Bed!” the boy yelled and ran after him, pointing back towards the red room.

 

“Dorn,” Anqi insisted, never slowing his stride.

 

The blonde jumped in front of him and started waving his arms. “Wait, _rafayam_ , please. _Rafayam_ Dorn?” He looked around, as if trying to decide which way to go, then motioned for Anqi to stay, careful not to touch him. “Wait, I find. Wait, please.” He ran off, but the half-elf had no intention of being left alone inside this maze of excess, and followed the boy, ignoring his protests.

 

After taking three turns, the boy ran ahead and pushed on a wall panel, then disappeared inside a tiny secret door. He left it slightly ajar, enough for Anqi to squat and investigate. The room was barely the size of a broom closet, and inside were two girls taking off their silk gowns and replacing them with long cotton tunics and wrapping their waist with brown sashes. They didn’t even blink when the boy burst in but covered themselves in fright when they noticed Anqi looking.

 

“Elli!” the same blond girl with mismatched eyes who had attended Anqi during the feast scolded the boy with a string of impassioned Turmic words, but her scowl lessened when he explained the situation. _Mia_ , Anqi remembered. Looking troubled, she ruffled her younger friend's hair and stepped towards Anqi. “ _Rafayam_ , please excuse Elli,” she said in a small voice, flicking her hand at the boy. “He learns words slowly. _Rafayam_ is looking for his friend?”

 

“‘ _Rafayam_ ’?”

 

“It means ‘exalted sir’,” she said, respectfully bowing her head. “It is how _Pasha_ taught us to call his guests.”

 

“But he didn’t teach you Common, and yet you can speak it,” Anqi pointed out. Mia exchanged a nervous look with her other friend, a small, freckled ginger girl, who shook her head. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell if you take me to my partner’s room.”

 

She hesitated, her striking pale blue and chocolate brown eyes searching the other servant’s face for advice, but the other girl just shrugged. Biting her lip, Mia nodded. “This way, _rafayam_.”

 

More winding corridors separated the servant's closet from their destination. On their way, they passed older and much less attractive staff members, who paused polishing the picture frames and dusting ornate suits of armour to peek at him. When they thought the half-elf was out of earshot, they burst into excited gossip, none of which he could understand. “Does your _pasha_ not have guests often? Everyone seems awfully curious about me.”

 

“It is because you are famous, _rafayam_ . _Pasha_ said you are a most important visitor from the West, and told us to treat you like you were family.”

 

Anqi wrinkled his nose. “And did he tell you why I’m famous?”

 

The girl shook her head. “ _Pasha_ only said that you are ‘Scourge of the Sword Coast’, but I do not know what that means.”

 

_And let’s hope you never find out_ , Anqi thought. “You do understand a lot of words, though. How come?”

 

Mia blushed and hesitated again. “One of my friends is in charge of shopping for the household. She learned from the traders and is teaching some of us in secret. _Rafayam_ , promise you will not tell _Pasha_?”

 

He smiled. “It’s a deal.” He grinned and reached out to pat her head, but she jumped away from his touch and froze like a frightened hare.

 

“P-please forgive me,” she whispered in panic. “I did not mean…”

 

“It’s alright, my bad,” Anqi said and crossed his hands behind his back. The girl’s fair skin turned as white as a sheet, and he did not mean to cause her further stress. Whatever she was dealing with seemed heavy enough, so he decided small talk might lighten the atmosphere and get her moving again. “So, your name's Mia, isn't it? You don't look like you’re from around here. Were your parents from the north?”

 

“From somewhere called Luskan. My mother had to work hard and so she left me with the _pasha_. My father died when I was little.”

 

_So much for lifting her spirits._ “My friend, Dorn, used to live there. Maybe you can exchange stories?” His crooked smile did nothing to relieve the look of utter terror on her comely face. “Ah, perhaps he wasn’t in the best of moods during dinner. He’s not great when it comes to first impressions, I admit.”

 

It was almost comical to see Mia struggle to find a polite way to respond, her lip trembling like a leaf in the wind. “As _rafayam_ says,” she agreed timidly after a moment, and Anqi couldn’t help but chuckle, which in turn made her crack a shy smile. The next couple of minutes, they continued in amicable silence, until they arrived at similarly ornate doors like the ones at the Red Chamber. This time, instead of stained glass, there were tropical leaves engraved on the dark wooden surface, enhanced by polished jade handles. Mia raised her thin arm to knock, but he stopped her with a quick gesture of his hand.

 

“You’ve seen enough of my friend for one day. I’ll take it from here,” he said softly and pressed his forefinger to his lip. “Run along and don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.” She retreated down the corridor with another bow. Anqi waited until her stick-like silhouette disappeared around the corner before he grabbed both handles and took a deep breath. _Convincing, not contrite. The problem is easily solved: I’ll keep you separate and you won’t even notice the brat_ , he rehearsed, then put on a confident smirk and pushed the door open.

 

The first thing that struck him was how much smaller the room was in comparison to the vast Red Chamber, but also how much more beautiful. The main and most breathtaking feature was the canopy of a large bed, which looked like that of a jungle thicket rendered in black and green metal, with jade vines sneaking in and out from between broad leaves. Among them hid spiky flowers wrought in gold, amber and garnet, obsidian monkeys and emerald lizards. The bedposts were sculpted in the shape of tree trunks wrapped by creeping plants, with a flock of painted parrots perched on each post. If he had a home, Anqi would love to make the glorious bed his centrepiece. Instead, as he had not planned to settle down for many a year, perhaps he could acquire an exotic plant for his cabin and be content with it.

 

He was so captivated by the decor, that it took him a minute to notice Dorn sitting on the bed with his broad back to him. His long hair tumbling down his bare shoulders shone illuminated by candlelight. There was a familiar sound of metal scraping against a whetstone, and the guttural, malevolent whispers coming from his direction. Anqi smiled. He enjoyed hearing Ur-Gothoz and Azothet’s futile attempts to influence the headstrong half-orc whenever he took care of his weapon. Ever since the two demons had been defeated and locked inside the Abyssal Blade, they had tried to bargain their way out, but thankfully Dorn preferred freedom to the power he’d once wielded by serving his callous master. _I’m nothing like Ur-Gothoz_ , Anqi assured himself, then crept into the washroom. The steam was still present, but the water in the great oval bath was halfway splashed all around the green marble floor, murky with grime and blood. He looked around for a way to refill it so he could have a go, but a loud scrape from the bed caught his attention.

 

“Are you planning to lurk about the doorway before I have to drag you over here?” Dorn said, his tone impatient. He replaced his sword in its sheath and put away the grindstone and the fire oil Anqi had bought for him in Arrabar, then turned to watch him from the bed. His eyes like dark pits were drawing Anqi in. Abandoning the notion of bathing for the moment, the rogue approached his partner and, with a pang of pity, noticed the lack of his facial hair.

 

“It’s too bad you shaved. I liked it before,” he whispered and brushed over the rough skin of Dorn’s cheek with his knuckles. The half-orc caught his hand.

 

“That makes no difference—it was starting to grate on my nerves so I got rid of it.”

 

“Will that be my fate too?” _Confident, not contrite_ , Anqi reminded himself, but the question slipped out of his mouth before he could think to stop it. Just like he feared it might, it did not sit well with Dorn; the grip on his hand tightened. Outside, the soft pitter-patter on the trees’ wide leaves announced the start of the rain.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous. You push me far, but it’s that snide bigot I’d like to erase. You’d best tell me that after tonight I won’t have another opportunity to do so.”

 

_There it is! Be confident_ , Anqi thought and braced himself. “There will be plenty, actually; we’re doing it, Dorn.” The dark gaze grew more dangerous, but he held it, unwavering. _Good_. “He’s nothing more than a simpleton with a daddy complex—all this is just to boost his ego without actually making his father aware of his misbehaviour.”

 

“There is a clear goal for us in the west, yet you prefer to stay here to enable a spoiled child? It’s beneath you.”

 

Anqi wrenched his arm free and wrapped it around his partner’s head, his fingers massaging his scalp through the thick mane. “I’m not proposing a change of plans; our goals will stay the same, but achieving them will be easier after we exploit the conceited half-wit. A month of sailing with you and your bloodlust will make him regret his childish scheme, and that’s when we will begin working our way towards what _you_ desire. Besides”—he nudged his way between Dorn’s legs, bending so that his chin hovered just above his partner's forehead—“I thought to be ‘beneath me’ was something you enjoyed.”

 

“If you think this meagre attempt will be enough to distract me, half-elf…” Dorn said and took hold of the front of Anqi's tunic. A flash outside turned the pleasantly orange glow in the room brighter, followed by low rumbling of the thunder still off in the distance. The rain intensified.

 

“Who says anything about distracting?” Anqi whispered and went for the kiss, pushing past his partner’s defences with only slight effort on his part. Dorn’s hand wrapped around his shirt tightened, and the other found its way around his backside and lifted him into his lap. The rogue tugged his lover's lower lip between his teeth, then pulled back, satisfied by the blaze in Dorn’s eyes. “I’ve laid out my plan before you. You can either accept it and reap all the rewards, or we return to the city that wants to hang us both, armed with nothing more but our names and wounded pride. Or would you rather hire assassins to do our dirty work for us? Or perhaps enlist mercenaries to aid us when we decide to storm the walls of Silvershield’s estate?”

 

“I will not hide behind cutthroats and sellswords; this is between us and those ignorant buffoons. It’s about our names going down in history as those who dared oppose formidable odds and conquered them.”

 

“And we will, but my plan offers more options. Bear the merchant’s presence until we can take his ship, and then our position will be that much stronger. Trust me, I’ll make sure he doesn’t bother you with his petty remarks.”

 

“Seeing him get so close to you tonight has bothered me plenty, and nothing can forgive that,” Dorn said with a growl, then shifted his hand to Anqi’s thigh, scraping over the cotton of his trousers in insistent circles. “Mark my words, the Karassar whelp will find his death, whether you like it or not.”

 

A small smile crept onto the rogue’s lips, and he brushed his thumb over his murderous lover’s ear. Despite being the exact antithesis of his shrewd planning, the idea of seeing Jazim suffer amused him. “I’m genuinely impressed by your self-restraint about this. It must have cost you a lot to sit there doing nothing while I played my part. For that, I am infinitely grateful.”

 

“Your gratitude is not what I’m after,” Dorn murmured and claimed his lips, gnawing at the scarred tissue mercilessly. Anqi answered in turn by yanking his hair and rolling his hips over Dorn’s groin. A moan escaped the tusked mouth, giving the half-elf a moment to breathe and taste his own blood.

 

“Ease up, or I’ll think you might be worried I'll consider Jazim’s advances.”

 

“Worry? Feh! What could that vain braggart give you that could outmatch what I’ve to offer?”

 

Dorn’s own, usually justified boasting brought not only a smile to Anqi’s face but also an insatiable urge to taunt him. He pursed his lips, pretending to give the question some thought. “This house is nice, and he does have good taste in music, unlike some. I can just imagine always drinking the finest meads and discussing art and poetry late into the night.”

 

The half-orc’s eager expression dimmed. “You jest. You cannot truly value something so trivial over the bloody trials that bind us together.”

 

There was more force behind these words than Anqi expected, but whether it was hesitation borne out of mistrust or irritation at being teased, he could not tell, and he wasn’t fool enough to ask. Regardless, it hurt a little to be doubted, and he wasn’t about to take the slight laying down. “Well, I don’t know…” he said, mindful to keep his tone light as not to penetrate Dorn’s delicate ego with his jab.

 

“Then let me help you make up your mind,” Dorn replied with vigour. The next thing Anqi knew was his partner flinging him around and crushing him into the silky bed sheets, while his urgent hands tore at his belt and pulled up his tunic. On its way over his head, the folds of the fabric caught on his bandana and rolled it up from his cheek. Anqi let out a small hiss but quickly forgot about the pain when Dorn kissed him. His tusks scraped against his chin and cheeks, as he pushed warm fingers inside his trousers.

 

“Yes,” Anqi murmured, then tugged at his partner’s hair, but Dorn caught both his wrists and brought them above the half-elf’s head, rendering him helpless as his lips were assaulted once more. For a moment, Anqi's mind went blank with lust, but then Dorn’s tusk snagged the crust-filled groove on his left cheekbone, which tugged the skin under his eye. This time he couldn’t keep his voice down and cried out. To his profound frustration, Dorn quit groping him instantly and reached for the bandana. Anqi turned his head away. “No, don’t stop,” he urged in a pitiful moan. The half-orc growled and held him by the chin, then shoved his thumb underneath the fabric and pried it off his face. The sticky blood pulled at the ruined skin of Anqi's cheek, and the sudden stench of pus made them both recoil in disgust. Anqi felt a rivulet running down the side of his face and into his disfigured ear. If that wasn’t enough to ruin the mood, the grimace on Dorn’s face made it obvious how bad his wound must have looked.

 

“Damn it,” the half-orc whispered, then yanked the bandana off completely. The fresh air was a relief to the scarred skin of his temple, but when Dorn brushed his finger over it, the pain shot through Anqi as if he were jamming a needle into his skull. He yelped pathetically. His partner climbed off the bed and fetched his bag, then lined up ingredients and tools to grind herbs with next to his head in solemn silence. When he was done, he stared down at Anqi in a mixture of regret and reproach. “We shouldn’t have left it unattended for so long.”

 

“Who could’ve guessed that feeding me disgusting weeds wasn't the right cure!”

 

A heavy hand pressed down on Anqi’s shoulder, an iron grip digging into his flesh. “This is no time for your misguided banter,” Dorn snarled. Anqi held his tongue—he knew better than to antagonise his partner when he was this upset—and then watched him as he began fixing the usual salve for a poultice. The rogue had made it himself a few times and knew the ingredients and steps to follow by heart; grind the dried yarrow, add powdered silver and a bit of honey, then dilute it in holy water. His partner followed the steps with practised ease, and the sounds of him grinding the herb blended with the summer storm having its tantrum outside. After a few moments, Dorn put away the pestle and soaked a square of clean linen in the mortar. “We must find a druid or go to a temple to replenish out holy water reserve,” he said.

 

Anqi hummed in agreement as he sat up and started wiping the pus off his face with another strip of cloth, carefully dabbing around the corner of his eye. Pulling the bandana off completely had torn off the scab that had formed over his eye socket which made it a mess, but also allowed him to fully open his eye for the first time in weeks. The last time they had treated his wound, he couldn’t see much more than vague shapes—now he could barely make out anything beyond light and darkness. He wondered if his eyeball had turned black completely, but the closest looking glass was in the bathroom and he didn’t feel like moving from the bed. He already felt queasy from the smell coming from his wound, and retching the good food that filled his belly was the last thing he wanted to happen. It was already bad enough he’d ruined the moment they both had been looking forward to for weeks with his injury—he did not want to add vomit to the list of unpleasant things that kept them away from being together at last.

 

“Head up,” Dorn ordered, and Anqi abandoned his sulking to obey. The cool cloth over his eye and temple felt like heaven, and the soothing salve brought immediate succour to the black heat that snaked beneath his skin. Overwhelmed by the relief, he leaned back on his elbows and sighed. Next came the bandage; Dorn wrapped his head loosely, then pulled his legs up on the bed, leaving the half-elf to lie on it diagonally, while he put away his tools.

 

“I love you,” Anqi whispered, unsure if his voice carried over the rain and thunder, and Dorn never acknowledged it. He yanked off the rogue’s leather boots and trousers, then removed his smallclothes as well, letting him flop freely between his legs. He then took off his own clothes and began extinguishing the candles. The occasional flashes of lightning were enough to light his way to the empty side of the overlarge bed. As magnificent as it was, there was too much space left between them. When Anqi reached over, Dorn caught his hand, gently this time, and placed it back on the sheets.

 

“Rest,” was all he said as he rolled over. The half-elf gripped the silks to stop himself from brushing the intensely touchable back, then lowered his head onto the fluffy pillow. He listened to the rain and Dorn’s deep breathing for a long time before the pain had subsided completely and he could finally sleep. A bang nearby woke him after what felt like only moments, sending his heart racing. When he pressed his chest to still his ragged breathing, he noticed he was soaked in sweat. The large body next to him shifted, and through the darkness, he saw his partner's eyes gleaming. “Go back to sleep.”

 

“Piss,” Anqi uttered the first thing that came to his mind, then stumbled out of bed and into the bathroom. He did relieve himself, all the sweet wine running through him, then approached the looking glass to assess his state. Much less desirable than he’d once thought of himself, he couldn’t do much about the visible part of his face but splash some cold water from the basin over it, careful not to wet the bandages. His chest and arms followed, and he finished up by washing between his legs and under his armpits. There were plenty of flasks standing on the dresser nearby, but when he opened one to take a whiff, the smell of some exotic fragrance almost made him choke. Setting it aside with a grimace, he returned to the bedroom only to find Dorn snoring softly. Fully awake, Anqi did not want to disturb his lover so he found his discarded belt on the floor and brought it to the armchair by the archway where the air was fresh and crisp. Careful not to make much noise, he took his time to rummage through his bag. Finally, he pulled out the three maps he’d found in the ruins and unrolled them. One depicted Turmish, the second the coast of Mulhorand on the Alamber Sea which connected to the Inner Sea in the south-east. The final one was of the lands to the north—Sembia, Impiltur and Thesk. They smelled slightly of mould and old ink, but thankfully the damp did not damage the detailed drawings. He had a mind to buy new scrolls and inks to attempt to redraw them before they departed from Alaghôn; one day they might come in handy.

 

He studied his find for a while before he realised the rain clouds had dispersed, allowing the moon to illuminate the stone porch beyond the archway. On a whim, he pulled the fluffy comforter off the chair and placed it on the wet step, then sat down, letting the dewy grass tickle his bare feet, and took in the garden. There was a pond nearby with immense lily pads resting on the surface of the inky water. Dragonflies zipped right over their giant pink flowers, and above them, under the leaves of palm trees leaning over the water, danced a hundred or more fireflies. Off in the distance, he could hear the muffled sound of cheering and music. It was now five days until Midsummer when the Feast of the Moon would officially begin, but it seemed the people of Alaghôn liked to start their festivities early. He looked back to the familiar shape of his partner behind the swaying snow-white curtains and chewed on his lips in mourning for their missed opportunity. Then, remembering his gift, he dipped his arm into his bag and found the shabby chest full of pins. They were even more beautiful in the moonlight, and he took his time to examine all of them one by one. Some of them were missing their clasps and some were broken—a lizard’s foot was gone or a bird’s tail feather—but most would no doubt be worth a great deal to collectors if he were to sell them. But there was no price that could match what they meant to him.

 

He smiled, twirling around a black vulture whose wings spanned the length of his forefinger, then picked up his belongings and returned to the bedside. Locating Dorn’s discarded satchels, he squatted down and slipped the bird pin into the medicine pouch. He left his things lying there and slipped in beside his partner, this time close enough to feel the heat radiating from Dorn's scarred skin, inviting his chilled limbs to wrap around him and warm himself up. He resisted the urge and only touched the muscular shoulder by leaning his forehead against it, then, silencing his restless thoughts with all his might, willed himself to sleep.

 

*

 

Dawn arrived with sunlight peeking through the curtains, and a pleasant surprise in the form of Dorn’s warm hand resting on his stomach. Tracing circles around his navel with his thumb, he roused Anqi in more ways than one. Shifting his head on the pillow, the half-elf met his partner’s intense gaze for a split second when they exchanged a wordless question and answer, then resumed where they’d left off last night with even more vigour and desperation. The sturdy bed stayed silent as they tumbled in it, pulling and pushing each other roughly, their backs and limbs crumpling the sweat-soaked sheets. Afterwards, they drained the tub of the dirty dregs from the previous night and filled it to the brim with the cold water from the bronze tank suspended above it. Anqi used the Cooker to heat up the bath and within moments they were enjoying a long, cosy soak and another lovemaking session. After they were both satisfied, Dorn left Anqi to scrub himself thoroughly while he got dressed. A knock on the door came as soon as the half-elf left the murky water, so he crossed to the door with just a towel around his hips, leaving wet footprints on the carpet. Mia was waiting patiently on the other side of the door and did her utmost to hide embarrassment at his state of undress by looking him straight in the eye. What she couldn’t conceal was a red bruise on her right cheek.

 

“ _Pasha_ invites you to break your fast in the southern lounge, _r_ _afayami_. I am to escort you whenever you are ready,” she said lowering her head, her hands folded neatly in front of her.

 

“We’ll be out in a moment. I hope you can forgive us the mess we’ve made,” he said lightly, but when she didn’t react, he abandoned the overly friendly schtick. “What happened to you?”

 

She tightened her grip. “An accident, _rafayam_. I thank you for asking, but you need not concern yourself with me. I shall wait here while you prepare.”

 

The tone of her voice was a lot more subdued than that of the bold girl he’d met last night, but also more determined. He did not wish to undermine her resolve to do her duty with dignity so he closed the door and dressed. He chose a fresh, mostly white shirt—bloodstains were so hard to get out—and black, loose-fitting, cut-off trousers. Over the clothes, he threw on a thick, brown bear fur and leather vest, which would have been insane to wear in summer but for the protective enchantments against fire. It would also protect him from Dorn’s criticisms about not protecting himself enough. With both the weapon belt and throwing knives strap in place, he only had to cover his head. He went back to the washroom to fetch the bandana he’d washed and left to hang before their bath. It was still damp, but a quick swipe of the Cooker over the material made the moisture evaporate instantly. The blood and pus stains were barely visible against the dark orange hue, so he tied it and then pulled the left side over the bandages. Kitthix's figurine returned to her usual place right above his temple, but she wasn’t the only pin he wanted to wear. During his nightly rummaging, he singled out a skulking copper fox with amber eyes and obsidian nose, which he now fastened onto his vest's collar and then polished it with the heel of his hand.

 

Dorn donned the black scale armour along with matching gauntlets and boots. He was in the middle of choosing which out of two helmets to bring with him, but when he saw Anqi grinning at him, he muttered under his breath and threw them both into his armour-dedicated bag. He was going to leave it behind, and only bring his medicine pouch and his second, mostly empty, bag of holding. Anqi’s two were always full to the brim; one with the essentials and the other with his beloved swords, so it was Dorn’s job to have room in his bag if they needed to restock. Apart from the holy water, there were a few items the rogue wanted to purchase before they set out to the sea, but that would have to wait until they had met their future crew and Dorn had approved of them. Judging by the grim look on his face, the chance of that happening was about fifty-fifty. “Don’t think our morning activities have made me forget the situation you’ve put me in, so don’t test me,” Dorn muttered. “My patience with you and this plan is already stretched so thin I don’t know if I’ll bother to stay my hand if one of the fools we are to meet displeases me,” he said, then threw on his scabbard, checking how well his sword slid in and out of it. As always, his perfect upkeep of the Abyssal Blade guaranteed no delays need he draw it in haste.

 

“I believe in your unbending will to support me will help you overcome the urge,” Anqi said with humour, but the sentiment was entirely true.

 

Dorn sneered and brushed past him on the way to the door. “Come, let us get the chore over with. The sooner we leave this place, the easier I’ll breathe. These walls are suffocating.”

 

They followed Mia along the winding corridors to the south lounge; Anqi had to take that name at face value because his sense of direction had failed him yet again, especially when the hallways began to curve. The destination itself looked eerily similar to the parlour from the previous night, but this time in place of amorous couples they were surrounded by scenes of hunts. Everywhere he looked hung trophy heads of deer, elk and moose as well as animals he’d never seen, their horns twisting upwards like elven spires, as well as snarling maws of wild cats, wolves and bears. Stinking of sandalwood, Jazim was sprawled on a double settee covered in spotted furs, dressed in pearl-embroidered black silks. His servants had braided his hair in a pattern different to the one from last night, and instead of golden hoops, he had them decorate it with silver ones.

 

“How fare you this morning? I trust you found my bed… comfortable?” he asked and motioned for them to sit at the long, low table that was already packed with dishes Anqi could only guess the names of. He decided to grab an orange and a handful of biscuits—they seemed like a safe bet to start with.

 

“Comfortable and sturdy, as well as beautiful. I’ve never seen a metal canopy before and I’d be a lucky man to know the master craftsman who had made it; it made the green room much to my taste.”

 

Jazim’s face did not betray any displeasure, but his voice came out tight when he said, “I’m ecstatic you found it pleasing in the end, despite having guessed your tastes incorrectly. Mia had relayed your disapproval of the chamber I had picked for you, and for that, we are both regretful.”

 

_The girl much more than you_ , Anqi thought with venom but smiled sweetly. “The shades in Dorn’s room calmed my nerves. The red chamber was magnificent indeed, but I see so much of the colour in my profession it gets a bit tiring. I hope you understand.”

 

Smiling, the merchant assured him he did. They small-talked about last night’s thunderstorm and the usual weather of Flamerule and Elasias in Turmish, and what the locals got up to during the Festival. That got Jazim running his mouth, forgetting to aim his snide remarks at Dorn, who did his best to replenish his energy by eating more than twice of what Anqi had stuffed on his plate, which still left more than a third of the dishes barely touched. Not wanting to dally, the rogue feigned excitement and pushed to leave the mansion and get to the designated meeting place as soon as Dorn was done with his meal. However, only a part of it was acting; he was curious about his future co-workers and whether they would fit into his plans or not. Sailors employed by grand companies like the one that belonged to Jazim’s father, who would not want to risk their jobs by displeasing the _pasha_ were of no interest to him, but he was hoping to meet some who wouldn’t mind seeing the lordling squirm, or even help scare him off and leave the ship for Anqi to do with as he willed.

 

By the time they left the confining corridors of Jazim’s home, the sun was nearing its zenith, making the golden gleam of the griffon fountain blinding to Anqi's sensitive eye. The temperature was mercifully less taxing than the day before, with a soft breeze tussling the palm leaves and stirring the parrots and songbirds to chatter in earnest. The flowering bushes were swarming with bees and massive, colourful butterflies, and the half-elf felt a pang of regret having to leave the gardens unexplored. He wondered if it was his elven blood that drew him to nature, or the insatiable curiosity he’d inherited from his human grandfather or grandmother, and in moments like these, it irked him to know so little of himself. If only his foster-father hadn’t been so terrified of his heritage, maybe he could have told him something, anything, about where he’d come from, other than a mad worshipper of Murder, and her bloodthirsty god himself.

 

He sighed, but when Dorn gave him a questioning look, he supplied him with a reassuring smirk. His face fell, however, when the servants brought out the chestnut and grey horses. Four house guards were already ahorse and a large palanquin was waiting for Jazim to get in, and only then Anqi realised he would have to either humiliate himself by admitting to his fear of horses or swallow his pride and rely on the merchant's hospitality. Her gentle, black eyes gazing at him steadily, her ears flicking lazily, and tail hanging still behind her rump, the chestnut mare didn’t seem bothered with his presence, but when the servant boy handed him the reins, he flinched and took a step back.

 

_Farewell my pride_ , he brooded and skulked to Jazim to ask whether he could join him, lying about wanting to chat more. The merchant invited him inside without a second thought, and soon they were swaying past the gates heading north towards the docks, with Dorn riding the grey beside them, and the guards both at the front and bringing up the rear.

 

“Wine?” Jazim asked, sprawled over cushions at his end of the box. Anqi shook his head. He peeked through the cream, sheer curtains and admired the architecture of the mansions and small palaces of the Merchant District, and scrutinised the people who lived there. He didn’t envy them their riches nor their peace of mind, but someday, when he was shrivelled and old, he wouldn’t mind living his final days somewhere as beautiful as this place.

 

The bliss ended abruptly the moment they left the wealthy district; the noise intensified as did the smells, and even the air itself felt stickier. He drew back from the window and rested his back on his own pile of pillows.

 

“It’s a sty, this city,” Jazim said after a while, wine swirling in his bulbous glass. Anqi cocked his head to feign interest, expecting a whole lot of nothing to spill out of the merchant’s mouth. “One might think the human and elf integration is a wonder since it rarely ever happens in other cities, but it’s just propaganda. The council uses this anomaly to promote itself as the city of cooperation and opportunity for all, while it does nothing to improve the lives of the overpopulated lower classes. The impoverished know, just as well as I do, that it is actually a trap.

 

“Did you know there are miles and miles of underground passageways and catacombs here? Yes, under all this colourful and loud facade lies the shadow of death from ages past. Every day, you hear of children going missing in the dwarven-made mazes, and every now and then commoners send an expedition to look for them. I’ve sent my people to join in those searches, but none of the other rich folk care. All they want is to appear cosmopolitan, building ever higher while their foundation rots. It is very sad.”

 

“You’re quite the altruist,” Anqi concluded pensively, not quite believing it, then added, “A pleasant surprise.”

 

Jazim took the fake compliment with a tip of his glass. “I’m afraid I take that after my late mother. I was told she had been trying to feed the poor of Calimport before an illness she’d contracted from one of her beloved street urchins claimed her. It happened only a few months after my birth. They said she was a great woman and a loving mother, but I ask this: what kind of mother leaves her own baby to foster other people’s children instead?”

 

“I don’t have a good point of reference as far as mothers go, but I did know a woman who tried to save the world from poverty against her family’s wishes. I believe she did do some good for a few of her beloved poor, if not all of them. Only the strong can truly help others—your mother must have been a very strong person.”

 

A grimace appeared on the merchant’s face, but before he could explain his displeasure, the palanquin came to a sudden halt, and the one-eyed guard Anqi had met yesterday appeared at its window.

 

“It’s just the revellers congregating ahead, _Pasha_. I’ll have them removed from the road at once,” he reported, then rode off to do his duty.

 

“Each year it gets worse and worse,” Jazim sighed. “The peddlers enjoy it, of course, and so does the council, but for all the other residents these love-struck fools are nothing but a nuisance. Two years ago we even had a pair of drunken newlyweds break into my gardens to celebrate their union in the middle of the night. As if that’s something to get so excited about. I had the groom and the guards who let them sneak in thrown out naked into the streets, while the bride I kept for a fortnight as punishment. Only as a servant, of course, nothing as drastic as one could imagine,” he said, but Anqi could imagine a lot, and the merchant lying through his teeth was one of the things.

 

A man screamed outside. Then came the snap of a whip, followed by a murmur of several more people. The palanquin resumed its swaying. Anqi caught a glimpse of a scantily clad crowd eyeing their procession with revulsion, while some of them gathered around a tear stricken young girl. She was wearing a sparkling blue veil that cascaded down her shoulders, barely covering her small breasts. Nestled in her lap was her lover’s bloodied head, a thin, red gash having split open the skin on his once handsome face.

 

“I thought you liked the idea of tying the knot, seeing as you’ve done so four times already,” Anqi continued their conversation, as he turned away from the pitiful sight, his thumb rubbing over his own wedding scar. Jazim snorted.

 

“I like it well enough, but you cannot compare my situation to that of the simple folk. I’m in the position to enjoy my life as I choose, with however many I choose, despite my marriages. For the less fortunate it’s like tying a noose around their necks. They will be giving away their freedom for the sake of another’s happiness for the rest of their life, which, to me, is irrational and naive. Why do you think adultery and spousal killings exist? It is because we are simply not designed to be faithful to one person our entire life. The people who cling to this notion just haven’t realised their error. Sooner or later, carrying the burdens of their husbands or wives will end up too much and, one way or another, they will lash out.”

 

_I know someone who just might if he heard any of this_ , thought Anqi, unamused. “There are hundreds of thousands of couples who disprove your theory.”

 

“It is no theory, merely an observation. And even happy couples are never safe from betrayal or lies. My Father had two other wives and seven different mistresses while my mother lived, and they only remained together because she submitted to that arrangement. If he had loved her the way the naive masses believe a husband should love his wife, she would be his only one. But it wasn’t so. Still, my family was happy because of her sacrifice. Could you say the same if your…”—Jazim furrowed his brows, momentarily lost in thought—“if Dorn found another to lay with and pushed you to the side?”

 

The muscles in Anqi’s face twitched, but he gritted his teeth and smiled at the preposterous notion. “I understand where you’re coming from, but that would not happen.”

 

“Even the most faithful have their breaking point,” Jazim countered with an aloof smirk.

 

“I’ve yet to see any indication of it in our case,” Anqi said, then turned to the window, where, just an arm’s length away, his partner swayed in the saddle of the grey mare with the same confidence with which he cut through his enemies or made Anqi writhe in delight. The idea of ever having someone other than Dorn was ludicrous, and he had refuted many such a suggestion from jealous or bewildered men and women in the past, but no one had ever proposed the alternative. The orcish tradition that had bound them together was something sacred in the tribe his partner had come from, and Anqi couldn’t imagine Dorn suddenly going back on his vows. Once, perhaps, he had feared it, but not since the disaster in Innarlith. No, his husband would never betray him, not for gold or fame, nor to take another as his lover. Anqi would bet his life on that.

 

As if sensing the thoughts focused on him, Dorn turned in his saddle and gave him a fleeting glance before returning his gaze to the thickening crowd ahead. Despite people pushing their way to and from the harbour through another gaudily painted portcullis, the air smelled more of salt than their sweat, which was a relief and a pleasant surprise. Above the writhing masses, the cries of gulls were almost as loud as those of peddlers who set up small stalls in the nooks and crannies between nearby buildings, or the gasps of amazed revellers they were trying to impress with their wares.

 

Their procession brought them to the main plaza, where the port guards kept a close watch of the throngs of visitors and urged larger groups to disperse or move along. Anqi stretched his legs, happy to get out of the confined space, and his eye was immediately drawn to the largest and most elaborate fountain he’d ever seen in his travels. Over three stories high, with the wingspan of the same length, stood a statue of Alaghôn’s blue dragon, Anaglathos, who had once occupied the city. From what Havarian had told him briefly upon their arrival to the Turmish coast, the fountain had been utterly destroyed hundreds of years ago by a dragon-hating cult but had been rebuilt due to its historical value, and ever since had been the symbol of the city. There was further proof of the citizens' love for the dragon’s fierce presence; to celebrate the Festival, the entire statue had been covered in strings of flowers, flowing, colourful streamers depicting a crescent moon, and, upon closer inspection, hundreds of pearl, coral and other precious stone necklaces he had seen being sold all over the city. Beneath the statue, children frolicked in the large pond, while couples lined up to pay tribute by adding to the dragon’s treasure trove and then dipping their feet in the water. Lliira’s vibrant joydancers offered them the Moon’s blessing together with a small congregation of Selûnintes, and the red-haired priestesses of the love goddess Sune called on everyone to enjoy the celebration by joining their loved ones in marriage.

 

Due to the festive atmosphere, it was easy to forget that the port was still running as usual beyond the plaza, where the docks were bustling with a different type of crowd. Under the escort of Jazim’s guards, the trio left the fountain behind and followed the cobbled path towards the north end of the grand square, where stood the inn Jazim owned. Taking advantage of their leisurely pace, Anqi took in the view of the scores of ships docked along the twelve stone wharves stretching far into the sea. Sailors and dockhands scurried around their vessels, loading and unloading goods, with a constant stream of carts and wagons going back and forth to move the shipment. The view of the anthill-like harbour was accompanied by shouts and curses, and the soft yet imposing sound of hundreds of wooden masts creaking in the wind, all of it coming into a song that called out to Anqi stronger than any sirine's song ever could.

 

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” Jazim clapped his hand over the half-elf's shoulder and let it rest there while he pointed with his other. Anqi followed the merchant's bejewelled finger and spotted the Karassar cream and gold sails and the purple griffon dancing on the flapping snow-white flag. Alongside it was the Calimshan ensign—a white scimitar above five stars on a green field—and the courtesy flag of Turmish. “My eldest brother’s _Jazala’s Boon_ , named after our mother and, right beside her, my _Dancing Griffon_.”

 

For once, the merchant’s boasts could not be dismissed as empty; the formidable galleon and the slender caravel were indeed impressive. Looking upon them only whetted Anqi's appetite. “Truly magnificent,” he said and meant it, then brushed his fingers over Jazim’s where they lay upon his shoulder. “We are lucky to be in your care, my friend.”

 

The intimate gesture seemed to surprise the young merchant, and not a beat passed before he let it get to his head. “Luck has nothing to do with it,” he said, and chased Anqi’s hand, but the rogue chose to play coy and snatched it away. A flirtatious spark gleamed in Jazim’s eyes. He continued, “I have a keen sense when it comes to people and can tell right away when I meet someone who’s worth my time and effort. I hope you will realise this and many other things about me when later today you see the vessel I’ve chosen for you.”

 

“If it’s even half as grand as these two, I just might,” Anqi whispered, leaning closer to Jazim. If the man believed lust could sway people into committing adultery or crimes of passion, the idea of an ambitious rogue falling for the merchant’s ships and riches could be another angle to play him. He let his eyes flit to Dorn, who had gone ahead on his own, and then back to Jazim’s comely face and full lips. He let his gaze rest on them just long enough to get the hint across, before breaking free of his embrace and following his partner. His plan paid off almost immediately; encouraged by Anqi's forward demeanour, the merchant slipped his arm underneath his and walked with him like that all the way to their destination. As they arrived under the inn’s wooden sign depicting a busty woman carrying two overflowing flagons, Jazim released the half-elf before Dorn saw them, then winked, as if they had just shared a secret moment. _Too easy_ , Anqi congratulated himself his cleverness and followed the merchant inside the _Lusty Bride_.

 

The inn, which ordinarily would have been overrun by sailors and port workers at this time of day, was dim and empty save for three people: its plump, grey-haired master, Garus Rovondé, who ushered them inside, the eponymous busty matron wiping the counter, and a stranger hunched over next to her, working on a pint glass. Then, over the profuse greetings from the owner, Anqi’s ears picked up the subtle clink of a glass being placed on a table, and out of the corner of his eye, he spotted two more people. Sitting in the dark, far corner of the hall was a pair of hooded figures, their faces obscured by strange carved indigo masks. The two noted his interest and exchanged rapid hand gestures. The shorter figure turned his back on Anqi, while the taller followed his movement across the room through four vertical eye slits in his mouthless mask. Dorn too spotted the pair and made a point to show off his weapon.

 

“ _Pasha_ Jazim!” the hefty, dark-skinned woman named Falla exclaimed, and burst out from behind the counter to greet the merchant. She spoke to him enthusiastically in Turmic while first kissing his hand, then embracing him and making loud smacking noises as she kissed both of his cheeks, her long, tumbling salt-and-pepper locks bouncing as she did so. He returned the gesture graciously, then introduced Dorn, who'd had better things to do than join Anqi on his first visit to the inn.

 

“This is our _bellana_ , Falla Rovondé, the bride of Garus, both of whom are my good friends and employees.” The half-orc grunted reluctantly, but it didn’t seem to bother the couple, who beamed and welcomed them all to sit at the round table just in front of the bar, then ran off to get them and Jazim’s guards something to drink. The man from the counter joined them. He was a stout, wrinkled prune of a Rashemi, judging by the shape of his face and the dusky shade of his skin. A few small scars adorned his face, and under his right eye, he wore a tattoo of a drop of blood. The mop of black hair he tied back in a short ponytail.

 

“Brigov. Call me Briggs,” he said, his grip on Anqi’s hand strong and tight. He then shook Dorn's hand, and there was no sign on his face that indicated he'd found the half-orc's grip painful in turn. He sat down next to Jazim, then took a swig from his freshly refilled glass, while Anqi smelled the contents of his own. Falla had a good memory—it was Evermead. “So, how’s the town been treating you? Noisy and smelly place, ain’t it? Can be dangerous too, even for big guys like you.” He grinned, eyeing Dorn in particular.

 

“Hardly, my friend. Dorn here could squish a person’s head like a melon, isn’t that right?” Jazim chuckled, motioning to the half-orc’s armour-clad biceps.

 

“I s’pose he’s fine if it came to cracking heads, but if you think that’ll be useful enough in the middle of a stormy sea, for example, you are mistaken. When the waves are tall and the ship’s rocking like a mad bull you need to have heart and skill, not just muscle.”

 

“Do not presume to speak for me, spicemonger. It is a privilege I rarely bestow on anyone,” Dorn told Jazim with threat-laced politeness. “As for skill, Rashemi, there is little I know that I cannot do, and little I do not know that I cannot learn. Most importantly, there is even less I ever forget, so if this ludicrous enterprise does get off its feet, you should make a point to keep that in mind.”

 

“Hah! Did this big lug just call our great _P_ _asha_ a ‘spicemonger’?” Briggs cackled, revealing yellow and brown teeth, some even replaced by wooden replicas, and raised his glass only to realise it was empty again. “Falla! More ale!” She came over with a flagon and smacked the old man on the back of the head, then refilled his glass. He slapped her lightly on the bottom as she went, and laughed some more. “Oh, I like this one, Jazim. Anyone who dares to talk to you like this must have plenty o’ heart.”

 

“You don’t seem very concerned about watching the words yourself,” Anqi pointed out. The old Rashemi seemed like a decent character, but so did the rogue, quite often right before he’d stab someone in the back.

 

“I’ve known this rascal ever since his noble daddy sent me to jail after I nabbed a tiny bit of his cargo for myself—what was it?—eight years ago. I mean, how could anyone blame me, really? It was right there for the taking, and without even a broken copper to my name, I had to do what I could to survive in a foreign land. After five years of thinking up terrible ways I could thank the old _pasha_ Karassar for sending me to the Calimport prison, this whippersnapper came and snatched me up. Unbeknownst to daddy, he brought me alongside him to settle in this splashy city and man his little ship. Such a wicked mind, this one. Why, if I hadn’t been a Thayan slave since birth, I’d think he was my long lost nephew or some such.”

 

“That’s quite a tale,” Anqi said and noted with regret. _This one is a miss, then._ He inclined his head towards the masked pair behind him. “What about the two in the corner?”

 

“Never had ‘em on my ship before,” Briggs said, then belched. “Beg pardon. Hey, mates! How about you join us, get your cups filled and make polite conversation, eh?”

 

They never made a move, until Jazim beckoned them. The one in the mouthless mask made a hand symbol, and this time Anqi caught and recognized it. _Summons, brother_ , it meant and was signed with deftness only a native speaker of the language could possess. “Drows,” Dorn muttered darkly, then grabbed for his drink, while the smaller of the two hooded figures rose and sauntered towards them.

 

Encountering drows on the surface was still a fairly rare occurrence to Anqi, and while travelling with Viconia had shed a lot of light on their race’s customs and beliefs, he was still curious about the male dark elves’ perspective. With the intention of communicating his interest, he got up and extended his hand.

 

“ _Ussta kaas zhah Anqi_ ,” he introduced himself, but the drow froze the moment those words left his mouth. Behind him, his brother knocked back his chair rising, his hand already on the hilt of the sword hidden under his plum-coloured cloak.

 

“You dare speak that filth, spider worshipper!?” the smaller drow hissed, his accent thick and voice deep. In the blink of an eye, he slipped into an offensive stance, drawing his own slim blade, yet it was unlike any a drow weapon Anqi had ever seen. The rogue scowled but stood his ground for Dorn appeared right beside him, ready to split the masked man’s head open.

 

“That’s as far from the truth as my hands are from my weapons,” the half-elf said, spreading his arms wide.

 

“Lies. You wear the spider goddess' symbol, half breed.” The drow thrust his mask's pointed chin at his head. Anqi followed his gaze with his fingers and found Kitthix.

 

“This?” He smiled. “I received it from my partner here after he’d taken it off the body of a priestess of Llolth he’d beheaded. A useful trophy and nothing more. And please, allow me to apologise. I meant no harm by speaking the tongue you so clearly hate. Ask your brother to stand down, while I have my partner do the same.”

 

The dark elves remained motionless. Anqi couldn’t read the face of the one who'd spoken due to the mask, which upon inspection resembled a sleeping man’s face, but he knew open hostility when he saw it, and could foresee how it would end. “Taur’al,” Jazim warned, his voice cold and imposing, and so unlike anything the half-elf had heard from him before. It made the drow flinch, and Anqi was ready to sigh in relief.

 

The front door banged open, and in came a dwarf wrapped in what looked like a discoloured and frayed bedsheet, his blond mane pulled back into a thick braid, just as were his massive sideburns. “Damn these bloody freaks, parading with their sweaty tits out all over the place. They blocked two roads with their gyrating arses, making me late,” he said. Moments later Anqi realised three things: that it was actually a she, that the sheet was a mantle, and that her presence upset the drow much more than his spider figurine.

 

“Spider worshipping mongrels _and_ women!? You said nothing about working with this kind of filth, Karassar,” the shorter of the drows raged on, pointing to the dwarf, who threw her cloak back to show off a beat-up but well-sharpened axe.

 

“What's that then? If you got a problem with me, then say it to my face, laddie. You won’t be the first to taste Lyeswyn Amberheart’s axe, nor the last, so let’s go.”

 

“That’s a show I wouldn’t want to miss,” Briggs cackled and moved his chair to get a better view. The four guards rose, their spears at the ready. It seemed like bloodshed was imminent.

 

“That’s enough, all of you!” Jazim barked, smashing his fist on the table. “Men, stand down. Erthas, call off your brother this instant, or you can forget about our agreement. Lyeswyn, I understand your position, but you were told to keep the axe to yourself while in Alaghôn. Do not force me to call the City Guard.”

 

The dwarf made a sour face, but then shrugged her mantle back over her weapon and made her way to the table, ignoring the drow’s poised stance. She slapped Briggs’ hand away when he pulled out a chair for her, then took a swig from his glass. The foam from the ale formed a moustache on the fair fuzz above her lips. The Rashemi grinned and called Falla for another glass and a refill. The drows lowered their weapons as well, the one called Erthas being the first to do so, and settled at a closer table Jazim pointed them to. With everyone pacified, Anqi sat down as well, but Dorn remained standing, his frown deep, his gaze unmoving from the hooded pair. “If this is the best you can offer, merchant, then there is little point in continuing this meeting. I don’t work with someone who doesn’t have enough of a backbone to show their face,” he said.

 

Jazim threw Dorn a frustrated glance, but then snapped his fingers at the drows. “Your petty bigotry has already been revealed—seeing the colour of your skin won’t make a difference. Take off your masks, and let us start this meeting like civilised men, not savages.”

 

Reluctantly, they obeyed and exposed their faces, again, the taller of them following his brother’s example. Both as dark as the moonless night, with high, sharp cheekbones, narrow noses and thin lips, they were the very idea of drow beauty, marred, in the larger brother’s case, by a long scar running diagonally across his mouth and splitting his lips into four distinct parts. Anqi could sympathise with his decision to wear a mask, yet it also covered a striking pair of uniquely pale, pink eyes. His brother’s were red, typical of their race. Both pairs were full of scorn they aimed at Dorn. The half-orc returned it, but took his seat nonetheless, satisfied to have learned his potential enemies’ faces.

 

“Erthas and Durzen Taur’al, my very experienced smugglers. Despite their coarse behaviour, they’ve built connections in almost all major ports of the Inner Sea,” Jazim finally introduced them. “You may doubt their skills on the sea due to their cave-dwelling heritage, but I assure you, they are both excellent at what they do. So much so, in fact, they had put many other crews to shame back in the day. The others eventually sold them out to the Order of Torm. One whisper of the slave trade was enough to spur the knights into an unrelenting pursuit.”

 

“It was a filthy lie,” hissed Erthas, turning his red glare towards Anqi. “Those wretched pirates couldn’t see two murkers succeed in their field, so they spread that damn rumour and sicked the damn Eye of Justice on us. We worked hard for over seventy years to get to where we were, and they tore it down in less than a month.”

 

“Yes, they were finished, that is until I heard of them rotting in a cell during my trip to Westgate. They’d piqued my interest, so I offered to get them out in return for their services.”

 

“You sound like freeing convicted slave traders, however falsely accused, is no big deal for you,” Anqi said with amusement, but in truth, he was more than a little impressed and taken aback. Havarian had never mentioned Jazim held this much influence.

 

“For a person of my status, clearing someone’s name can be easily arranged, especially if those making the decisions are willing to exchange favours. That’s why your partner should not dismiss our collaboration so quickly. I’ve much more to offer than just a ship and a comfortable bed,” the merchant stated proudly, and Anqi felt his sandalled foot graze his shin under the table. He swallowed hard and forced himself to grin. “But that’s it for the brothers’ tale.” Jazim waved his hand dismissively and then placed it on the dwarf’s shoulder. “You’ve already heard Lyeswyn’s name. She and her husband—”

 

“Former husband,” she interjected, then spat on the floor.

 

“...former husband, then, have been working closely with my brother’s crew, delivering minor shipments from the docks to various establishments all over the northern port cities. There was a bit of bloodshed involved in one of the deliveries, and my brother had thought it best to let Lyeswyn go. I was of the opinion that he was being too harsh on my friend here, and thus offered her a position on my ship.”

 

“‘A bit of bloodshed’ is a mild way of saying she butchered her husband when she caught him visiting a brothel between deliveries,” Briggs added, chuckling and rubbing the dwarf’s back affectionately.

 

“And that’s why the two-timing bastard is my former husband,” Lyeswyn finished, banging her glass on the table. “Nothing ends a marriage better than an axe to the gut.”

 

“The single life agrees with you, my friend,” Jazim said, then turned to Anqi. “As you can see, whatever their circumstances, I aim to employ people based on their experience. Like with you, Anqi, I believe it’s ignorant not to learn of a person’s true value, troubles with the law be damned. And unlike the Sword Coast, the word of your exploits has hardly reached the shores of our great, wide sea. With me as your partner and overseer of the venture, and a group of people similarly inclined to stay hidden from the law by your side, you will not find a safer place to flourish, I promise you.”

 

_Thanks for stealing my thunder_ , Anqi groused to himself, trying to ignore the heat in Jazim’s gaze. He had wanted a chance to establish Dorn and himself as independent players before the merchant had attached himself to them, as he just had skillfully done. But while first impressions were important, he trusted in his people skills enough to know he could turn the unsatisfactory situation around, as long as he spent some time alone with the crew members and got to know what made them tick.

 

That would, however, have to come later, for Dorn rose from his seat and urged him to do the same. “My companion and I need to discuss something. In private,” the half-orc told the merchant and walked outside, ignoring all the others.

 

Anqi let out a huff. “This won’t take long, trust me,” he said and winked at Jazim, grinned apologetically to the others, then followed his partner outside.

 

The afternoon sun blinded him momentarily when he stepped out onto the cobbled street, but the bright light didn’t stop Dorn from marching onwards. He bounded down a winding staircase that divided the plaza from the docks, and crossed a beaten track, avoiding donkey-drawn carts and wheelbarrows pushed by tireless workers. They passed by tanned dockhands loading crates onto the ships, captains arguing with the harbour staff about the increased docking fees, and vendors hawking grilled fish and baked potatoes to those who had the moment and coin to spare. The noise down here was almost unbearable until Dorn led him onto one of the wharves. By the time they reached its far end, the drone of people gave way to the crashing of gentle waves punctuated by the cries of seagulls above them.

 

“This is as private as it’ll get, Blood, so why don’t you say what you want.”

 

Dorn turned around, his expression dark and serious, even more so than usual. “You’re not buying this farce, are you?”

 

“Of course not,” Anqi sighed and crossed his arms, preparing himself for a spat. “Trust me—everything the merchant says I take with a grain of salt and I see the way he’s trying to impress me.”

 

“Impress you? He’s taking you for a fool.”

 

The half-elf scowled. “Don’t be ridiculous. All this talk about buying out convicts and helping criminals, that’s all a play to make us—me—think he’s the solution to all my problems. And we know he’s lying about our names not having reached Turmish since both Brammin and the thugs in the alley knew who I was. We’re as safe here as we are anywhere else, like always. He’s so desperate it’s almost funny. And the way he got angry at the drows? I think he was trying to sound dangerous like you to suck up to me because I chose to sleep with you instead of in the room he’d picked for me.”

 

Dorn’s frown deepened. He motioned to the nearest docked ship. “This is blinding you, don’t you see?” Anqi rolled his eye. “He is using this new interest in sailing you've developed to ensnare you into whatever plot he and Havarian had cooked up. And the debauched behaviour? That's just an act—I would know since I’m forced to watch you debase yourself in the same manner—and whatever he’s hiding under that facade deserves only our wrath. This”—he pointed again and this time caught Anqi by the back of the neck, making him look at the ship—”this is not worthy of you. Of the real you I know is still there. The real you with whom I once had hoped to subjugate our enemies and share blood and glory. To overcome our enemies, Anqi, not slog away at their petty schemes—that’s what we are meant to do.”

 

‘We’. That was what made this so hard.

 

Gnashing his teeth, the half-elf broke free of his partner’s hold and took a step back, blindly staring at his feet. The heat was rising up his neck, but the tips of his fingers were numb. He balled his hands to force the shivers down. He needed to focus before he lost his resolve completely. This could be his last chance to avoid returning to the Sword Coast, and if Dorn wanted him to be more assertive, well, Anqi would gladly show him he can claw his way out of this and any other predicament. He licked his lips and looked his partner straight in the eye. “What happened, Dorn? After all these years, have you stopped trusting me now? You know this is just a step towards our goal, a small detour that will help us become what you want us to be. And who cares if Jazim is acting or is truly the dullard I think he is? As soon as he gives us a ship, we can stop worrying about him. You're already planning to kill him one day anyway, and he's also admitted to a few crimes his daddy would love to hear about. Hells, we could return to Calimport and play father against son, if we wished. This plan is not a mistake, Dorn, I’m certain of it, but I need you to be on it with me.” He extended his scarred hand. “Please, I’ve trusted you to back me up all this time. Don’t fail me now.”

 

The rage that was building up in Dorn was so palpable it made the hairs on Anqi’s neck stand. For a fleeting moment, his instincts told him to run—run as fast as he could, but he knew there was absolutely no danger for him by his partner’s side; just like Coerilos always said in his books: ‘Not even the most wrathful of storms could go on forever.’ And so the half-elf stood his ground unflinching. Dorn’s hand rested on his shoulder heavily, while the other lifted his chin so he could not avoid seeing the hurt behind the blazing, dark pools. “Once, a remark like this would have cost you more than just my devotion. You speak of trust, yet I can see there’s something you are not telling me. I’ve watched you and learned the ways of your craft enough to know when you’re lying, so I’ll ask this only once: why is this deal with the merchant so important to you? Think before you speak; I may tolerate your ill-thought methods some of the time, but I will not tolerate you lying to me.”

 

Dorn released him, but the pressure remained, suffocating Anqi.

 

_Will he know? I’ve managed to get away with it so many times before_ , a traitorous voice whispered.

 

_No, I shouldn’t, I mustn’t._

 

_He won’t know! He loves you—he’ll believe you no matter what._

 

“You know why, Blood," he said with confidence, but it evaporated as soon as he saw Dorn's brow twitch at the pet name. He swallowed. "We need the ship so that…” _Go on, say it!_ “It’s so we can go back…”

 

Dorn’s expression was cold and severe, and for the second time in his life, Anqi felt like he had truly failed his partner. Somewhere in the distance, the harbour bell rang, as if it was playing a dirge for his ambitions. “Finish the thought, Anqi.”

 

_It’s for us, Blood_ , the rogue thought, but the words failed him. He saw his own reflection in his partner’s eyes, meagre and cowering. _No, it’s not. It's for me._

 

“Say it,” Dorn demanded.

 

_I have to lie or he’ll leave._

 

_He’ll leave if he finds out. There is no other way, I have to tell him the truth._

 

He had to tell him the truth. He gathered his courage and licked his lips again. Another bell joined the first, closer and louder. Someone yelled in a foreign language, but he blocked it all out; this was too important to botch. He took a deep breath, then said, “The ship… I’ve always—”

 

A bowsprit appeared in his vision from out of nowhere, and before he could react, the bow of a ship smashed against their wharf with a deafening crack. The impact threw Dorn at him along with a mass of shards of splintering wood. He crashed into Anqi. Both of them went tumbling to the ground. The pain knocked the breath out of the rogue, but before he could catch it again, he was falling into the murky water of the pier, while the ship continued to fly past, shedding more wood in the process.

 

It felt like he had been falling for hours, yet the cold water that engulfed him caught him off guard and rushed into his mouth and nose. He kicked his legs before he realised he was drowning, locked in his partner’s steel embrace. Debris was sinking around him and a sudden burst of air bubbles from Dorn’s mouth obscured his vision. For a terrifying moment, he couldn’t tell up from down. Then something pushed him hard on the chest and seconds later the air slapped his soaked face like a furious lover. The cacophony of voices around him was disorienting, and he wrestled against hands suddenly pulling at his clothes, dragging him up into safety. He coughed up water and massaged his neck, vaguely noting he’d lost his fox pin. At that moment he realised he was alone among the strangers.

 

“My friend’s still in there!” he moaned, but the hands held him tight. He could only watch in terror as one after another, men jumped in the sea to help others who had been thrown in beside them. More heads broke the surface, brown, yellow, red, but not the pale, scarred face of his lover. He tried to fight against his rescuers to go back for him, but then came a huge splash, and the familiar, dark mane emerged a couple of meters away from the wharf. “Save him,” Anqi called out and yanked his arm free enough to touch the spider on his head. Kitthix sprung to life and shot her webs at Dorn. The men around him grabbed onto the strings and helped pull him up, then patted his back, asking if he was alright. The black scale armour was gone from Dorn's back, but he was clutching the strap of his sword scabbard, stubbornly refusing to lose what he held dearest. Anqi wrapped his arms around him, thinking just the same.

 

The ship that had almost stolen Dorn from him was stuck on the wharf next to them and had lost enough of its hull that water began pouring inside. For some inexplicable reason, the caravel’s cream and gold sails caught fire, which by now reached the purple and white flag flapping listlessly from its main mast. “Oh, no,” Anqi whispered and peered at the stern, where the helmsman was slowly picking himself up from the floor, his straw-coloured, coiffed hair a mess. _Havarian_. The ship’s name painted on the starboard read 'The Ripper', and for once Anqi did not appreciate the irony. He climbed to his feet, rolled his hands into a tube and called the pirate who’d almost killed them.

 

Havarian twisted his head around and stiffened. “Ah, it's you! I’m afraid I must depart earlier than planned, my friend,” the pirate yelled back. He was looking around as if he were distracted by something. His lips began to move and the air around him shimmered. _The bastard’s trying to teleport away_ , the half-elf realised, furious, but there was nothing he could do to stop him. Then two figures appeared behind the scoundrel out of nowhere. The one wearing a dark indigo cloak caught him in a headlock, while the other, dressed in bright red leather and glittering chainmail snatched both of his arms and placed a pair of wide, silver bangles over his wrists. The strangers then switched places, and a wide, silver choker found its way around Havarian’s neck. “Must we really go this far, ladies? You’ve already caught me and burned half of my ship,” Anqi heard the pirate grouse, but even when surrounded, he sounded as smarmy as always. The hooded woman didn’t seem to appreciate his sass and knocked the legs out from under him, then dug her knee into his chest.

 

“If you had come with us back on the Dragonisle, we wouldn’t have to chase you so hard, now would we?” said the chainmail-clad figure in a cheerful voice that made Anqi’s mind flashback to Athkatla, where he had left the girl it belonged to in hopes of never hearing it again. But by some twist of fate, it followed him all the way here, the same chipperness and moxie as before, squeaking in celebration of her success and adding to his misfortune.

 

The dark figure noticed Anqi staring and then said something to the cheering girl, which made her spin in place with sudden haste. She threw off her hood and for the first time in two years, her blue eyes found his green one and she exclaimed in excitement, “Anqi!? Is that really you? Heya! It’s me, Imoen!”

  



	4. The Dear Sister's Doubts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The two wards of Gorion suddenly find each other after over two years, but their meeting is far from timely. On top of the surprise reunion, Anqi's new ship is already in ruins and his captain in chains. Add to that a chipper Imoen and a very displeased Dorn Il-Khan, and the rogue just might have more on his plate than he'd ever bargained for.  
> *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

As far as family reunions go, Imoen decided this one could’ve gone better.

 

Right away, she could tell there was something off about Anqi when she approached him—the subdued Saemon Havarian in tow—and the first thing that came out of his mouth was a demand to release him immediately. No ‘Oh, hello, Imoen! It’s been forever, how’re you doing?’, or ‘That was a wicked move you did back there! Your skills have improved so much!’ No, none of that. Instead, he just glared at her with animosity one would normally reserve for one's enemies. She was going to address his rude greeting right then and there, but it turned out a clamorous pier was not the place for snappy comebacks, as the people swarming around them were demanding the pirate responsible for the accident to be punished. They wanted him to pay for smashing not only his own ship, but two other vessels docked at the wharf, and for wounding many people in the process, but as much as she wished she could make it up to them, Havarian belonged to her now and she would not give him up.

 

Anqi and, to her disappointment, that brooding lump of muscle, Dorn Il-Khan, were among those hurt, but to her relief, the extent of their injuries was limited to a few scratches and bruises. She was going to ask about those too, but there was too much going around them, and she and her companions had to prioritise the security of their prisoner. In a happy turn of events, her task became much simpler when four guards pushed through the crowd and forced the dockhands and sailors back, while a princely looking man emerged from their midst. He then took a quick glance at her party, the pirate and Anqi, then invited Imoen to join him somewhere private where they could talk. A chance to catch up with her brother was tempting, and it did align with the job of securing the traitor, so she accepted the invitation gladly.

 

"But I need to leave my prisoner with my men," she told the richly garbed stranger. "Rheshid and Fa Lin will take Havarian to my ship. It's the one with the green sails that just docked four jetties ahead, and it has a cosy cell with his name on it," Imoen said as she pointed to the handsome galleon they had hired in Westgate. She wished to inform its captain that their mission had been completed and to reassure him that the extra payment she had promised him for a swift voyage was as good as his now that she had finally got her hands on her elusive target.

 

"Over my dead body," snapped Anqi. To Imoen's utter astonishment, he blocked her path and pulled out a sword on her. The crowd around them raised their voices and cried for Havarian's blood, completely ignoring at whom Anqi was aiming his weapon.

 

“Do be careful what you wish for,” Imoen’s trusted companion said, as she slipped from behind her like a shadow, her hooded cloak flowing behind her like a whisper, her blade meeting her brother’s in the gentlest of kisses.

 

“Hexxat?” Anqi’s single visible eye widened, and, just like that, all the hostility seemed to drain out of him and he withdrew his sword. That was another thing she was going to mention—the fact that half of Anqi's pallid face including his other eye was covered by a dirty rag. But that, like all else, had to wait.

 

“Indeed. I am pleased my skills with the dagger have made enough of an impression for you to remember me. Or perhaps it was my face, I wonder?” The vampire withdrew her blade and replaced it in its sheath with a spin, but remained standing between Anqi and Imoen, like the overprotective sweetheart she was. Rheshid and Fa Lin shifted nervously beside her; Imoen knew they would throw themselves at her enemies if she needed them to, but she remembered how quick Anqi was with his two swords, and what a bloody mess Dorn left behind after he was done with his opponents. Asking her two friends to throw away their lives because her brother had some sort of problem her would not only be rash but also heartless.

 

“That’s almost all the introductions done, then,” the handsome lord said as he clapped his hands. Imoen wondered if it hurt with so many rings on his fingers. “I am Jazim yn Nalud el Karassar, a humble merchant of this fine city of Alaghôn. Now, if we could move this reunion along? Your presence is distracting to those around us, dear lady. No doubt they are taken by your beauty as much as the fact that your people are holding someone they very much want to see punished.”

 

Handsome and skilled with words. Imoen couldn’t say she disliked him. “I’m Imoen, Anqi’s sister. I suppose my brother is giving me little choice in the matter of Saemon Havarian. Very well. I will join you as I am, but the crook stays in my care,” she announced, then asked Fa Lin and Rheshid to go to the ship and pay the captain their fare, and then to wait for her word at the nearest inn.

 

“What have you done to me, wench? My magic—!” Saemon Havarian complained as the bracelets clicked together in front of him to form inescapable shackles, the bewitched amethysts embedded in the enchanted silver glowing faintly.

 

“It’s a special geas to stop you from teleporting away or causing any other mischief,” Imoen told him resolutely, then turned to the polite merchant. “Lead on, mister Karassar.”

 

He smiled—his teeth were as perfect as the dimples in his cheeks—and said, “Jazim, please. Using first names is what friends do, and that is what your brother is to me. I’d like to think the same of his charming sister,” he said, his dark eyes sweeping over her.

 

Very skilled with words, and much too handsome. Imoen felt herself blushing. “Naturally, Jazim,” she said and smiled softly. The merchant ordered two of his men to handle the complaints around the pier, then led them away from the rabble. Imoen followed with Hexxat and their prisoner right behind, separating her from her brother and his… whatever Dorn was to him. That was another thing she needed to find out.

 

They walked only a short distance, passing by a magnificent, gargantuan statue of a blue dragon, and arrived at a fairly ordinary inn Jazim said he owned. She told him it was nice. With just a few words, he dismissed the four patrons drinking inside and had the innkeeper pour them cold wine. They sat around a large table, Imoen and Hexxat flanking Saemon Havarian, just in case he tried something. Dorn refused to sit and perched by the counter, like a grim reaper waiting for someone to drop dead so he may swoop down and claim their souls. The gloomy image was disrupted when the jovial and extremely busty hostess handed him a huge fluffy towel, which he accepted with barely a grimace and began to dry his tousled black mane. Anqi received one too; he unbuckled his wet leather armour to wipe his torso, then moved to his face, but instead of taking off the soaked rag off to dry his hair, he threw the towel over his head and continued to stare at Imoen with dismay as if she’d kicked his puppy.

 

Jazim then asked for food for the newly arrived, and the innkeeper and his lady friend hopped to it at once, bringing platter after platter of fruit, cheeses, pastries and meats. Imoen was feeling a little peckish from the four-hour long pursuit of Saemon Havarian's swift caravel, during which she had been hurling spell after spell at its narrow sails and hull almost without a break, so she thanked her hosts and helped herself to a little of everything. While she ate, she added a few more questions she wished to ask about Jazim and his relationship with Anqi to her list.

 

After he’d grown out of his rebellious phase, her brother had become very good at dealing with people, but being called a friend by someone so refined and rich was a little different than how she remembered him. He always tended to dismiss the posh and proper for the dangerous and wild, which was why, she suspected, he continued to keep Dorn around. Ever since they were children, Anqi preferred to read about the smallfolk rather than the kings, and whenever they played, he would always be the pirate or the bandit, while she was delegated to act out the role of either his sidekick or the ruler he’d oppose. It was the same when they went on missions to steal nick-nacks from old Winthrop or one of the Candlekeep guards. It hit her, then, that perhaps Anqi meant to rob the merchant lord, which would make sense why her presence had upset him so. She would have to find a way to let him know she wasn’t going to mess up his scheme—not only was he her brother, but the honour among thieves compelled her to do so. She would not, however, give up on the pirate, even if the scoundrel had somehow become a friend of Anqi’s. That was something her brother would have to respect.

 

He didn’t see it that way, however.

 

“What in all Hells do you want with Havarian?” he demanded as soon as the pair of hosts withdrew to the kitchen, his sharp gaze piercing her like a knife.

 

“My mission is to bring him in so he could pay for his crimes,” she stated, trying to ignore the pang of hurt in her heart. “The real question is: what do _you_ want with him? He’s swindled us once before, remember? He betrayed us in the middle of a battle. Why would you want to have anything to do with him?”

 

“That’s none of your business,” Anqi snapped back. “What crimes is he guilty of now, and against whom?”

 

“The Shadow Thieves,” she stated proudly. The name would mean nothing to a rich lord, but both her brother and the pirate would know not to mess with her and her people.

 

“‘The Shadow Thieves’! That sounds serious,” Jazim said and stroked his strange, yet oddly appealing square-shaped beard. “Oesman, the intrepid middleman from Sembia, turned out to be a wanted criminal. You should have told me, friend!”

 

Saemon Havarian spread his hands in a helpless gesture as best as he could with his arms bound. “Apologies, friend, but old habits die hard. Like our dear Anqi, I too have people dogging my steps, and I was only attempting to cover my tracks to protect our venture.” There was a suspicious amount of levity in the pirate’s voice which Imoen didn’t like. It made no sense for the crook to be joking around after learning who he was up against. Her displeasure grew further when the merchant suddenly smiled.

 

“In that you are right. What say you, miss Shadow Thief? As sly and wicked as he seems, the man is a partner of ours, and we’d prefer to see him freed. Isn’t that right, Anqi?”

 

Her brother remained unperturbed by her revealing her employer’s name, sitting there like an expressionless statue, save for his fingers, which were picking at the crack on the rim of his empty plate. “Yes, we would. There are matters Dorn and I need to discuss with him,” he finally said. The cold tone of his voice gave Imoen chills.

 

Dorn had been silent all this time. While that was how Imoen remembered him from the time he’d aided Anqi in fighting Caelar Argent’s crusade, and later, when he helped rescue her from Spellhold and deliver her safely to Athkatla, the intense way he was observing her brother unnerved her. She had been vaguely aware of a budding camaraderie between the two during their pursuit of Caelar, but the sudden shift in their relationship when she and Anqi had been reunited in the asylum had taken her by surprise. Not once before had it crossed her mind that Dorn, the brash and hateful grump, could become so fixated on her brother and, in turn, become amiable towards her, but it had happened. Now, it would seem, the two had evolved even beyond that queer relationship, but to what end, she could not tell. Whatever it was, it felt strange, somehow, but just like with Anqi’s plans about Jazim, she did not wish to interfere, no matter how the tusked bully unnerved her.

 

“Whatever you wish to discuss, do it now. Or better still, come back with us to Athkatla, where a trial awaits him,” Hexxat picked up the conversation, making Imoen realise she had been lost in thought. As always, the vampire sounded cool and collected, and her voice was like an alluring song. Imoen had no doubt it could soothe Anqi’s nerves, at least a little. “He owes Aran Linvail an overwhelming sum of money, or his head, depending on his choice, so I’d recommend you settle your matters with him sooner rather than later.”

 

“A trial!?” the pirate cried out. “What have I done to Aran Linvail to deserve all this, frankly, over-the-top treatment? Whatever you think it is, it’s no doubt just a misunderstanding. I haven’t interfered in any Shadow Thieves’ business in years!” he argued, theatrically motioning with his shackled hands.

 

“You can ask him once we arrive in Athkatla. For now, do keep your questions to yourself,” Hexxat ordered and promptly cast a charm spell that had Saemon Havarian’s eyes glaze over as if he were in a daze. “Some of the company you keep is regrettable,” she told Anqi, but there was humour in her voice. Imoen's friend was always great for lifting the mood in the room, and she was grateful for that. She did not want the situation to spiral down into unpleasantness any more than it already had. “It is also regrettable that our business may be causing a setback in yours, but whatever his part in it was, it is best for you to let him go before he brings his trouble over your heads.”

 

“Trouble with the Shadow Thieves? I doubt it is something we couldn’t handle,” Jazim said as he sipped his wine, leaning back in his chair. Next to him, Anqi sat with his arms crossed, while Dorn abandoned his towel on the counter and approached the table, looming over them all, his moist hair spread over his bulky shoulders like a mass of seaweeds. The half-orc was without any armour, wearing only a black tunic, which was an unusual look for him, but even like this, his muscle-bound body was intimidating. Not for the first time, Imoen felt like a tiny mouse in his presence, but then she remembered she had her magic and Hexxat, and she dismissed her fears.

 

“With all due respect, Jazim, I don’t think you realise the extent of the Shadow Thieves’ reach and power,” Imoen said confidently.

 

“On the contrary, I know all about them. And I’ve heard a few things about your leader too, especially about his entrepreneurship. I’m sure we’d be able to make a deal more beneficial to both our sides instead of squabbling over one rogue pirate.”

 

Handsome, rich, charismatic and aware of the criminal underworld? There was more to this man than Imoen first thought. “It is not for me to say—”

 

“But it is so for us, and I say that it’s out of the question,“ Dorn finally broke his silence and rested his hand on Anqi’s shoulder, turning his harsh gaze towards the merchant. “The pirate’s fate is ours to deal with. We don’t want you involved.”

 

Jazim barely raised a well-groomed eyebrow at the rude half-orc, as the corner of his plump mouth stretched in displeasure. “I was merely offering Anqi a simple solution, and I believe it is up to him,” he said coldly.

 

 _I guess Anqi is still the only one who likes Dorn_ , Imoen thought as she noted the tension in the air. She cut in, before their curt comments grew into an argument, addressing the only person whose opinion she cared for. “Actually, Saemon’s fate is now in Aran Linvail’s hands, Anqi. Whether he prefers to make deals or simply have him pay for his crimes is wholly up to him. I could, however, arrange a meeting, if you are so adamant on protecting the pirate, though I honestly see no reason why you should,” she said, then smiled, hoping to see just a glimmer of the old Anqi she knew and loved. “Consider this little bit of nepotism as a reunion gift from your little sister.”

 

“Half-sister,” was Anqi’s first response, which felt like a slap to her face. She hid her shock behind a chuckle.

 

“Oh, come now, we might not have shared a mother, but we’ve shared both our dads, the good one and the bad. Lighten up, why don’tcha? You’re becoming as crabby as Dorn, here! No offence, of course.”

 

The grim half-orc scowled. “Your favours aren’t needed nor appreciated—Linvail owes us for clearing his city of the vampire plague. No offence,” he said inclining his head towards Hexxat, his tone of voice mocking.

 

“None taken,” her vampire friend said with a smirk, a glint of amusement dancing in her onyx eyes as she turned them to Anqi. “What is your decision, then? Will you join our escort to Athkatla?”

 

The three men looked to one another. Anqi was deep in thought, seeming the most conflicted, as he chewed on his marred lip. _Those cuts are new_ , Imoen noted and wondered what had happened to her once good looking and exuberant brother in the last two years to turn him into this bleak, scarred husk. It could have been all the fighting he’d done, she figured; while doing errands for the Shadow Thieves, Imoen had heard rumours of the Bhaalspawn War, and more than once wondered if Anqi had been involved. He was always so eager to get rough with people when he was young, she remembered that well, but their foster-father had helped him to grow out of that. Gorion had always been so patient and caring, and it would hurt him to see the state his adoptive son was in, so hostile and unpleasant, his eye flicking back and forth from the shady merchant to the even shadier half-orc he kept at his side. She didn’t want to allow her darkest thoughts to cloud her judgement, but she couldn’t help but wonder whether Anqi’s sour attitude and adamant refusal were due to Dorn’s influence.

 

“We will go,” her brother finally said, and Imoen sighed with relief. “But only on the condition that Havarian will remain here until we’ve reached an understanding with Aran. Keep the geas on him if you need insurance or have your people watch him, but he isn’t going anywhere.”

 

“You needn’t worry about him sneaking off. I will keep him here under guard so you can resolve this issue without any misgivings,” Jazim added with a pleasant smile. “It’s not like we need him freed right away since he did cause some damage to Anqi’s ship, and it will take a few days before it is repaired and he is needed at its helm.”

 

“‘Anqi’s ship’?” Imoen’s jaw dropped a little. She had done her utmost to wreck the vessel during the pursuit, assaulting it with fireballs and lightning bolts, and all the while it had belonged to her brother! “I am so sorry! A part of the fault is mine, but I would never have done it had I known the caravel was yours,” she exclaimed sheepishly, but despite her embarrassment, she couldn’t keep her excitement down. Reaching across the table, she grasped Anqi’s hand. “You do know I very happy for you, don’t you? After all these years of wishing and hoping, you've finally done it!”

 

“Done what?” Dorn asked, scowling at her as if she had just admitted to stealing something precious from him.

 

“Nevermind that,” Anqi hissed and recoiled from her touch. “Keep your thoughts to yourself, Imoen. Come on, let’s get ready. I don’t want to be a part of this farce any longer than I have to.” He rose and tapped the half-orc on the arm to get him moving, but to his surprise, Dorn remained still.

 

“I asked you a question, girl. What has Anqi finally done?” he said, a low, bestial rumble coming from his chest.

 

The sudden tension in Anqi’s stance and the way he licked his lips, like the many times in the past when he knew he was in trouble with Gorion or the monks, gave Imoen pause. Her gut feeling was right: there really was something wrong about the two of them, and perhaps this was a chance for her to find out what that was. Anqi had come for her last time she needed him, and now it was her turn to do the same for him—no matter who they were, be they strong and intimidating like the half-orc, if someone was scaring her brother this much, they would have to answer to her. “Don’t ‘girl’ me, you big brute,” she said rising as well, her height barely bringing the top of her head up to his collarbone. “Just because you bully him doesn’t mean Anqi has to tell you everything.”

 

“Don’t,” her brother growled in warning. The knuckles of his clenched fists were turning white. Not even when Gorion punished him that one time had Anqi looked this frightened. The memory made Imoen sick to her stomach.

 

“No, this isn’t right,” she insisted. “I may be messing up your plans by holding Saemon, but you still have a ship like you’ve always dreamed when we were kids. I’m proud of you for finally making that dream come true and I won’t let him ruin this for you just because he doesn’t understand something that isn't causing people to run in fright!”

 

“Imoen!” Anqi pounced at her. Before she knew to react, her brother’s bony fingers squeezed her throat, his familiar yet barely recognisable face hovering over hers, the green iris of his eye expanding as he stared her down. Hexxat appeared between them instantly and elbowed him in the chest, thus releasing his hold. But what Imoen glimpsed in his expression was not fury or hatred, but sheer terror. Dazed, she touched the irritated skin on her neck. She wanted to ask what was wrong, but no sound came from her mouth. Instead, she searched for the answers in her brother’s face, but like the grim vulture he was, Dorn swooped down on him and dragged him away from the table.

 

“Wait! Where do you think you’re taking him?” Jazim demanded, his two guards standing at attention beside him.

 

“Mind your own business, you scum-spewing peddler!” Dorn roared and stomped to the door. He kicked it open, shoved Anqi through and slammed it shut behind them. The windows and the glasses on the table rattled in his furious wake. Jazim’s mouth hung open, the outspoken merchant suddenly speechless. The innkeeper came out to check the commotion, but Jazim sent the man away with a thrust of his arm.

 

“You two, follow the _mameluk_ and send the word out,” he ordered his men after wiping droplets of sweat that clung to his temples and regaining a modicum of composure.

 

“No, I’ll go,” Imoen said, her voice small and hoarse, but resolute. She cleared her throat. It burned, but she would bear with it. “This is a family matter.”

 

“I’ll be close by,” Hexxat whispered, her cold hand soothing on the back of her neck.

 

Imoen smiled, then followed her brother’s tormentor, her dagger and her magic at the ready. If Dorn was planning to hurt her only family, he would have to go through her, the Shadow Thieves’ most elite archmage and quite the adept at incinerating big men with big swords.

  


***

  


_Again! She‘s doing it again!_

 

Anqi’s head was a mess, stuck in a loop of guilt and accusations, trying to suppress a fear so petrifying it was taking away his ability to speak.

 

_She’s cost me my freedom once, and now she’s here to take it away again._

 

Rattled, he watched his feet dragging underneath him, while the pain from the steel grip around his arm was making his hand grow numb.

 

“Anything the matter there, mate?” he heard Brigov call out, but he couldn’t focus on where he was. Anything except his own laboured breathing pounding in his ears and the rhythmic stomps of the man in front of him seemed far away, and everything in his vision was obscured by his broad back.

 

“Back off, old man,” Dorn warned and kept walking towards the edge of the plaza with purpose. Anqi didn’t want to think what that was, but after a few more rushed steps, his mind finally snapped back to reality. He dug in his heels trying to resist the powerful hold, but his partner was simply too strong.

 

“Let go! Damn it, it hurts, you bloody oaf!”

 

They passed two houses and a crowded tavern, then took a right turn into a narrow, shaded street. Immediately, Dorn snarled and slammed him into a wall, then lifted him by the front of his shirt while grasping the hilt of his sword with his other hand. “‘Bloody oaf’!?” he roared, startling some passersby into a trot and causing others to turn their heads towards them. “Is that what you thought of me when you deemed it necessary to lie to me? ‘The oaf won’t know a thing, while I play him like a fiddle’. Is that it?”

 

A lie caught on the lump in Anqi's throat. “You know I’d never think that about you.”

 

“Do I!? It seems all I’ve ever known from you were lies, thief. I’ve witnessed you cheat and manipulate your way to get the things you want, believing, like a fool, that the trust and devotion I’ve given you would exempt me from your deceit. Oh, how wrong I’ve been to believe you. But no more. Now, you will answer me truthfully, or I’ll make you wish you’d never laid eyes on me,” Dorn said, pulling his weapon out a little, a greedy black and red gleam emanating from the blade. “Have you ever had the intention of claiming your father’s legacy and making me your avatar, or was that just a lie, a bone you throw a dog to keep him faithful? Was it this unworthy, childish fantasy of yours that was spurring you on, and not the power and glory you’d so often promise me we would attain together?”

 

Anqi covered Dorn’s hand with his and looked him straight in the eye, hoping his partner would see he was being truthful. “I’ve never once lied about wanting to help you find power and attain glory,” he said, his voice even. The fist holding him tightened.

 

“But you never wanted it for yourself, is that what you're telling me? A bloody ship! _That’s_ the extent of your ambition, the true reason we’ve been wandering the land for over two years?” Anqi let the bitterness in Dorn's voice wash over him helplessly. “You’ve made a fool out of me, half-elf. You’ve made me believe there was so much more to you than this… weak and pathetic little schemer! Not only that, but you’ve tricked me into giving up the powers I'd already possessed. And for what?”

 

“Tricked you!?” Anqi felt his face grow hot. “Ur-Gothoz had nothing for you but contempt. Having to witness that demon walk all over made me sick to my stomach. If I had become the God of Murder and made you my avatar, it would have been the same! All I ever wanted was to see you released from his clutches, then rid myself of the fate I never asked for, so that we could be free to do as we pleased, together. As equals.”

 

“‘Equals’!? You dare play me like a puppet and keep me in the dark, and you call that equality?” Dorn roared again, and this time murmurs came from the small crowd gathering at a safe distance from them. Some of the more fearful onlookers whispered about calling the guards. Anqi wanted to avoid a bigger commotion, but it seemed someone intervening could only help his situation. He doubted, however, the brave soul would get away with his or her life with his partner this enraged.

 

“Please, Blood, trust me. Let me explain—”

 

The moment the words rolled off his tongue, he knew they had been the wrong thing to say. The crowd gasped when Dorn yanked the smouldering black blade free from its scabbard, the air shimmering as it arched above his head, and aimed its tip right under Anqi's chin. The snarl on his partner’s face was replaced with a cold fury that sent chills down the half-elf's spine, the murderous gaze more terrifying than any of his battle cries or threats. Dorn released him and took a step back. “There is nothing you can explain at this point. I’m done listening to your filthy lies, traitor,” he said. All the blood drained from Anqi’s face. His head spun and he felt so faint he almost missed what Dorn said next. “Draw your blade.”

 

Someone in the crowd swore in fright and the whispers turned to animated mutters. A woman in the back shouted, “Fight!”

 

Anqi stood paralysed.

 

“No,” he mouthed, then found his voice, but it was shaking like a dry leaf in the autumn breeze. “No, Dorn. I won’t raise a sword against you.” He turned his left hand up to show his love the scar he’d received from him; after two years the damaged tissue was still thick and red. “I vowed to bleed for you, but I won’t do this.”

 

“Oh, you will bleed, thief. Now, draw your weapon! I will not cut you down unarmed and further disgrace myself on your behalf.” When Anqi refused to move, Dorn closed the distance between them, his face looming right above Anqi’s. “Do it,” he growled, his breath hot on the half-elf’s forehead, his eyes slightly glazed, and his rough, scarred cheeks flushed. Anqi could feel the murderous intent coming off the demon-confining blade—it craved his blood as payment for turning Dorn against the hellish entities locked within. He had no intention of becoming their prey, but he did not want his partner to think he was taking up his challenge. Yet if he had any hopes for both of them coming out of this row unscathed, he had to risk it. Faster than Dorn could react, he slid the Fury out of its sheath and, with one swift and smooth swipe, knocked the two-handed sword out of his hand, sending it scraping on the cobbled stone. He then darted after it to block Dorn from retrieving it. The half-orc cursed, clutching his arm which spasmed from the aftereffect of the Fury’s electric charge. Anqi's bold counterattack made his partner’s eyes gleam with bloodlust. His panic rising, the rogue put his sword away and spread his arms.

 

“Please, Blood, don’t do this.”

 

“Coward! Is this your answer?” Dorn roared, furious. “You dare bring up our vows, yet this is how you mean to honour them? Or was that promise also a lie?”

 

The thought of losing that last bit of trust made Anqi feel ill, but he welcomed the sensation. He deserved no better than this. _I can’t let him provoke me any further_ , he thought despite desperately wanting to argue. He set his jaw, determined to end the confrontation. Dorn spat at his silence.

 

“I should have known a natural born cheat like you could never bring me anything more than disappointment. That a thief could do anything more than to rob me. Humiliate me. Have a laugh then! Laugh at the naive half-orc you’ve managed to string along this far. Laugh, and see how far that’ll take you after I make you bleed for the love I’ve wasted on you and the vows you’ve defiled with your treacherous tongue.”

 

“It’s you who wanted vows and blood ceremonies, Dorn! You! I never asked you to swear anything to me!” Anqi yelled, surprising himself at the sharp tone of his voice. His partner grabbed him by the leather strap on his chest and lifted him off the ground. For a split second, Anqi eyed Dorn’s sword on the ground behind him, but his partner didn’t need it in order to hurt him—the hands that had brought him pleasure, could easily break his bones if he wished it so.

 

“Yes, I wanted them, blindly trusting in your pretty and empty promises, but it was you who uttered the words,” Dorn said through his teeth, venom pouring out with every syllable.

 

“What choice did I have!?” Anqi was on the verge of hysteria, grasping at the fist that held him. Dorn recoiled as if he were slapped.

 

“Every choice!”

 

Anqi didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or cry at the empty assurance. He did neither and stared into his lover’s eyes with numb determination. He knew it was a risk, but he was at the end of the rope, and for once in his life, he could not find it in him to lie, especially not about the matter that got him into this trouble in the first place. With his voice strained yet steady, he told the man he loved, “We both know well you would have cursed me to all Hells and tossed me aside if I had not gone along with your demands. Whenever I happened to disagree with you, you had nothing for me but threats, and I don’t even want to count the times I was certain your blade would make an appearance to cut me down when I denied you. Do you have any idea what it did to me to hear my partner, my most beloved friend, promise me a swift death if I didn’t ‘mind my tone’?”

 

His eyes wide, Dorn bared his teeth, visibly struggling to keep his composure. “I had thought you stronger than those snivelling betrayers like Simmeon and his band! If you had been truly so weak as to find my disposition upsetting, then why deceive me for all those years? Why keep me by your side if all you felt for me was fear and hatred!?”

 

“Because I love you!” The heated admission tumbled from Anqi's lips before he could stop himself. As he expected, it only made his partner more furious.

 

“You dare to say it to me now?”

 

“Always, you bloody fool. Always, despite your insistence on my claiming the legacy I’ve never wanted or the obsession with slaying anyone who’d cross our path. I’ve even gone along with your whim and sworn myself to you when you asked it of me, and don’t pretend you would’ve been anything but furious had I declined your offer.”

 

Something changed in Dorn’s eyes; the flame that had threatened to engulf Anqi just moments ago was extinguished, and in its place bubbled something dark and cold and deadly. A shiver went down Anqi’s spine. “My 'whim', you say?” the fallen blackguard repeated, his voice sombre. Anqi knew instantly that he had cut too deeply, but there was no way to soothe the wound. Not anymore. “You’ve taken everything I offered for granted, thief. This is what it gets you.”

 

Dorn’s scarred left hand closed around his windpipe, and for a moment Anqi’s mind went blank. His body moved on its own, kicking out instinctively. One of his feet found Dorn’s ribs, the other pushed his body away as soon as the grip on his neck loosened by a fraction. Anqi heard the ripping sound as the front of his shirt and the strap remained in the half-orc’s fist as the rogue's back slammed on the ground. Heartbeat thundering in his ears and blood rushing to his head, he racked his brain for something, anything to stop or delay Dorn's wrath, but he could not come up with any ideas. _Get up_ , was the only coherent direction his mind screamed at him. He twisted his legs and kicked up. Something bright flashed in front of his eyes. The air escaped from his lungs as Dorn fell on him, but instead of a grunt of pain, blood gushed from Anqi's lips. The Cooker's flame burst inside him and set his clothes and flesh afire. The stench of boiling gore filled his nose. His vision swam and his knees buckled under his weight. He couldn't feel any pain when he collapsed on the cold ground, his mind barely comprehending the source of the conflagration engulfing his ribcage. His eyelid fluttering, he could scarcely see the silhouette looming over him, or feel the coppery taste in his mouth. Everything was so bright and so loud, and it hurt.

 

 _Forgive me_ , Anqi wanted to say, but he could not tell if the words had even left his mouth.

  


***

  


Anqi’s mouth moved, but Dorn couldn’t hear him over the panicked shrieks of the fleeing crowd and the wild thumping of his heart.

 

As he slid the dagger out, it hissed and left behind a black, smouldering scab on the previously supple, olive skin. The blood had already turned brown and crusty around the wound, but it was still fresh where it was dripping from the fingers of his gauntlet. He shifted his gaze to Anqi’s green eye that was staring right through him. He reached out to touch the pointed cheekbone, then slid over to the purple ring around his neck, his fingers leaving behind a red trail.

 

He clenched his jaw.

 

 _It had to be this way_ , he reasoned, then reached out to close the eyelid and lay his former companion to eternal rest.

 

Instead, he found himself tearing at the strap holding Anqi’s bag. Yanking it off his right hip, he dug through it desperately. _Bloody hoarder with your foolish trinkets! Where is it!?_

 

Then he felt the spiral grooves of the object he was after and released the breath he was holding. _Don’t think I’m done with you. I won’t let you off this easily._ He pulled it out.

 

An impact, like being rammed by someone his own size, knocked him forward and over Anqi’s torso. A blinding pain followed, and his nostrils filled with the smell of burning cloth, skin and hair.

 

“How could you!?” came a high-pitched cry from behind. At the mouth of the street, Imoen had assumed a hostile stance, a long, curved dagger in one hand, the other glimmering with magic residue from the fireball she had just hurled at him.

 

“Keep the spells to yourself, witch! This is between us,” he told her through clenched teeth and located his sword, but when he reached out for it, a series of magic missiles whizzed at his hand, knocking it back and the blade out of his reach. “I said begone!”

 

“Murderer!” Imoen's cheeks were moist, but there was a wild rage in her eyes as she advanced on him, muttering another spell. Short on options, Dorn snatched the small dagger where he’d let it fall, and rose, ready to put the frantic mage in her place. A lightning bolt zapped towards him. He avoided it by the skin of his teeth, letting it fly past and burst into a fountain of sparks against the building behind. The few remaining onlookers ran in panic, the nearby vendors leaving their stalls behind and calling for their gods to save them. Deaf to their screams, the wench began casting another spell.

 

“Listen to me, you foolish girl. In his bag, there is—”

 

“Shut up!” she yelled and hurled another fireball at him. He dodged the main impact, but he couldn't avoid the burst afterwards. The magical flame washed over him like a tidal wave, burning even the air in his lungs. This was the first time he had to endure the spell without an armour protecting him, and it was more painful than he ever imagined. He gritted his teeth and staggered a few steps back, before another attack hit him square in the chest, knocking him to the ground. When he pushed himself up, he saw Imoen standing next to Anqi, with the vampire kneeling over him, her protective hood pulled over her face.

 

“This is… very bad,” Hexxat said, her slim, ebony fingers inspecting the wound. She scrunched her face in distaste. “I… I cannot remain here with him. The smell…”

 

“Understood. Please go get help,” Imoen gave the command. Hexxat withdrew swiftly, then the girl turned back to Dorn. “I told him you were bad news from the start, but he didn’t listen—he liked you too much. Maybe even loved you, but now it's clear the feeling wasn’t mutual.”

 

“An ignorant child like you wouldn't understand,” Dorn snapped in response and advanced towards her. A great, flaming dragon's head appeared above her. His step faltered. “Are you insane!? You’ll tear this place to rubble!”

 

“I don’t care as long as I kill you, you monster!” she snarled and thrust her hand at him, the conjured up magical mirage following her command at once. Dorn knew Dragon's Breath was a fearsome spell, tough to handle fully equipped, but without his armour, taking that sort of concentrated magical attack would render him unconscious at best. At worst... No, that was out of the question. Before the illusory dragon's fiery maw engulfed him, he turned on his heel and darted past the abandoned stalls and carts. The explosion shook the walls and swept him and everything else in its radius away. He rolled, then scrambled to his feet and slipped into a gap between two buildings, making for the other side. Behind him, the girl screamed for him to come back and face her wrath, then sent another salvo of missiles that burst right next to his head.

 

He had to find a way to gain an upper hand, get behind her and knock her out before she managed to cause him substantial harm. He turned right into a street leading away from the harbour, in hopes of drawing her—and possibly guards summoned by the noise—far from Anqi. Then there was Hexxat. He would have to beware of her attempts to charm him, but as long as he resisted, he would be able to get to the half-elf.

 

He ran into the crowd who had run away from the devastated street. One of the bystanders identified him as the killer, causing the others to flee in fright. A singed half-orc brandishing a weapon was very easy to spot, but the hoofbeats growing louder in the distance meant Dorn had no time to look for a disguise. His only choice was to run even farther, and as much as the notion of sneaking around filled him with disgust, being slowed down or captured was unacceptable. The crushing sense of betrayal would not hinder him, not when he still had a task to accomplish. He picked the first alleyway ahead and disappeared in the shadows.

 

Set on evading the pursuit of what he guessed must have been half a dozen riders in a maze of narrow back roads and winding pathways, he never noticed when the gaudy townhouses turned drab and dilapidated, and the bustle of sailors, vendors and revellers gave way to yelping dogs, the mutterings of vagrants and vague cries of children. He halted in an alleyway filled with broken crates and rotting vegetables, where two thin, scruffy men who wore nothing more than dirty loincloths played some sort of game of chance with animal bones. They squinted his way and called out to him in their language, but he ignored them and checked around the corner for any sign of the guards. After a minute of listening to the sounds of the street and rattling of the bones on the ground, he decided to make his way back. He still had time, he hoped. And if Imoen had silenced her rage, she most likely would have done the deed for him already. In any case, he still had to get the half-elf away from her misguided care.

 

Getting sick of the smell of burnt fabric coming from his back, he tore off the destroyed tunic and discarded the scraps, then stuffed the dagger in his belt. He noted with faint relief that Imoen's spells had not damaged his medicine pouch—he reached inside to find a potion of healing, but something sharp pricked his finger. Hissing more from annoyance than pain, he turned to inspect the contents of his pack, only to glimpse from the corner of his eye a pair of big black eyes that belonged to a dirty beggar child who was staring up at him. More similarly filthy children were trailing behind him like a flock of starving ducklings and, noticing him looking at them, began reaching out their small, bony hands to him and crying out in their native tongue. Stomping his boot in the mud, he growled to let them know what he thought of their plight. They scattered like flies from a carcass, only to return mere moments later, their despair stronger than their fear.

 

 _I’ve no time for this nonsense_ , he thought and turned on his heel, ignoring the street urchins. He retraced his steps until he found himself at an intersection of two very similar shabby paths. He swore at his naiveté—relying on his partner’s sharp sense of direction had made him rusty, which he could add to the number of many foolish mistakes he had been guilty of as of late. He looked up to locate the sun, but the sky was overcast, and the four-storied houses squeezed closely together made it hard to discern where the light was coming from. Picking a direction he guessed was east, he stepped over more piles of garbage and passed a crowd of vagrants swarming around what looked and smelled like a homeless shelter. Some of his juvenile followers joined their older peers in a queue to get food, while he squeezed past a wagon parked by the entrance, the old draft horse napping where it stood and its driver missing.

 

They appeared almost simultaneously, four riders at each end of the road. Dorn immediately noticed their drawn curved swords, a red jewel adorning each pommel. The path was wide enough for only two horses abreast, so while four of them advanced, the other four stayed behind, closing the already crowded alley and making escape impossible. That was fine; he would just cut through them.

 

He reached for his sword only to remember he’d left the Abyssal Blade behind in his haste. Dagger it would have to be, then, though the halfling's weapon felt more like a child’s toy in his hands. _Enough to send the half-elf to his grave_ , a bitter voice said, but he dismissed it. They were coming.

 

“Hold it right there, scumbreed!” the younger of the two ahead cried, and Dorn recognised his voice. The last time he’d met the thug, he was just as mouthy when picking on a little child. He and his armless crony were supposed to have been arrested, but it would seem street scuffles weren’t much of a crime in this paradoxical city.

 

Next to the young goon was the same wrinkled, old prune from before, Nester, and at the mouth of the road lingered the fat, cowardly bandit named Firenzo who had fled alongside his elder counterpart. He was dwarfed in height and girth by an actual pig of a man, whose flabs of flesh spilt from underneath his silk vest and tunic. Underneath him was the biggest horse Dorn had ever seen, his back wide and sturdy enough to support his massively overweight rider. The pigman wore a turban with a great, red rock stuck in the middle, and a bored expression that said he wished to be anywhere but here. “Is that the filth who dared to maim one of us, Arno?” he asked, his voice sounding exhausted or drunk. Given his blotchy appearance, most likely both.

 

“That’s right, master Ymar!” the youngest of the bunch replied, as he spurred his horse a few steps onward.

 

“Pathetic. He looks like some sewer scum unworthy of even crossing blades with the great Ruby Talons. And tell me, Nester, where is that greatsword of his that had taken poor Dalon’s arm?” the pig called Ymar said with a thick Calishite accent. Dorn would enjoy gutting this one more than the others. He tightened his grip around the puny dagger.

 

“Gone, sire,” the old bandit supplied his brilliant observation but seemed much less enthusiastic about facing Dorn. The two creeping up on him in the back looked just as wary, especially since the crowd and the wagon by the shelter forced them to approach one by one. Dorn decided would start with them.

 

“Well then don’t just stand there and gawp. Kill him, or I’ll tell my cousin his men trembled at the sight of one half-dressed tramp more than a virgin on her wedding night,” the pigman snapped, as he wiped the sweat from his brow.

 

“You don’t need to say it twice, sire! I don’t even care about the reward—he will answer for what he’s done to Dalon!” Arno kicked his horse into a gallop, aiming to trample Dorn or force him to dodge to the left, where the youth's curved blade threatened to take his head. He did neither of those things. Dropping to one knee, he guided his dagger at the horse’s neck. The choking smell of burning meat was followed by a spurt of blood. The animal stumbled to the mud, screaming, and trapped its rider’s leg underneath its side. The fallen blackguard pounced on top of the horse's twitching corpse and yanked the sword out of Arno’s hand. “Y-you killed Dalon…” the young goon stammered.

 

“Allow me to reunite you, then,” Dorn said with venom and stabbed his first opponent in the chest. Arno died within seconds. Dorn then snapped his head to face the rider approaching from the back. A metallic sound warned him of the attack, but the distance was too short to dodge the shot completely, and the bolt hit him square in the left shoulder. Another one snagged him in the right side, shot by Nester, who began reloading his heavy crossbow right away. Dorn growled and pulled out the offending piece of metal, then chucked it at the first shooter’s horse. The animal neighed and tossed its head, forcing its rider to hold onto his reins, which gave Dorn enough time to sneak to the side and cut his saddle strap, sending him crashing to the ground. He slapped the horse’s rump and sent it galloping at Nester and the two fat men. The fallen thug he kneed in the jaw to stop him from ambushing him again, then rushed at the bandit behind him.

 

By then, the crowd of vagrants had dispersed and the wagon’s owner had emerged and was trying to calm his animal from going into a frenzy from smelling the blood. Dorn paid the man no mind as he advanced towards his next opponent, but this one had been smarter than the two before, rearing his horse in the last second. The horse's hoof managed to collide with Dorn's cheek before the half-orc withdrew his head. The thug had been counting on it. He kicked his horse, and the beast shot forward, crashing its chest into Dorn’s. Only thanks to his raw strength was the half-orc able to push back and twist away before he got trampled, but the rider was waiting for that too. He swiped low with his sword, its blade slicing deep across Dorn’s back. He snarled in pain. Another round of bolts found their mark; one caught him right above his left hip, the other lodged itself in his left forearm, but it would have got him square in the chest had he not raised it in the last second to protect himself. With two riders behind him and four in front, along with the one dazed on the ground whom, to his fury, he hadn't managed to knock out completely, he began to grow frustrated at the lack of reach and power of his greatsword. He spat; a globule of blood and a tooth splattered in the mud.

 

“Keep at it until he begs for his life,” Ymar demanded in a lazy fashion as if he were ordering a fifth helping of some meal at an inn. Dorn growled and twirled his weapons; that was the exact thing he needed to hear to make his blood boil, and the thing the swine would regret uttering. With a renewed rage, he flung the dagger at the horse that kicked him. It lodged in its neck and burst into flame, causing the beast rear in panic. This time the sneaky thug failed to hold on and slipped off. Tossing its head from side to side, the horse screamed, so Dorn silenced it permanently with a slice of his looted scimitar, then collected the dagger from its body.

 

The draft horse at the wagon couldn’t handle the stench of death any longer. Ignoring its master's reins, it broke into a maddened dash and trampled the dazed thug, then slammed into Nester's steed and knocked the old man to the ground. The pigman somehow managed to stay ahorse but lost his turban, which revealed a series of cuts and slices all over his bald head. Using the commotion, Dorn rushed the sneaky bandit, who managed to yank his sword out in time to attempt to parry, but the well-built Turami could not dream of matching the strength of an enraged half-orc. The impact knocked the bandit's blade out of his hand. Dorn followed by sinking his sword into his gut, ripping through the leather vest and chainmail alike. The dying man slid to his knees, so Dorn kicked him off his weapon and found his next target—the old man.

 

“Master, even now he’s too strong! We must retreat!” Nester cried, scrambling for the crossbow he lost when he fell, only to realise the bolt he’d loaded had been accidentally released as it hit the ground. Firenzo, still ahorse beside him, shot his, but Dorn saw through the attack and sidestepped it with ease.

 

“Quit your nonsense or I’ll have Hakka flay you for your cowardice!” Ymar squealed, but the huge whites of his eyes betrayed his fear. Dorn would kill him last. _Let the pig's terror grow with each death he was about to witness so that he’d know Dorn Il-Khan was not some easy prey to be hunted for gold._

 

“Y-yes,” the old man said with a shudder and reached for his sword, but there was nothing a withered prune like him could do against the might of a superior warrior like Dorn.

 

Horses approached from the rear. Twisting his head, he saw the two remaining thugs who seemed eager to get killed sooner rather than later. He would deal with them before the cowering geezer. Then something he did not foresee happened: one of the riders produced a spear and threw it at him. Whether by skill or chance, its point found its mark, and it tore through Dorn's trousers, skin and muscles, the shaft lodging itself in the meat of his right thigh and pinning him to the spot. The other thug used this chance to run him down and delivered a deep slice into his left shoulder, knocking the scimitar out of Dorn’s hand. The weapon fell to the muddy road with a soft _thud_ , followed by a trickle of blood that was spilling from the wound and down Dorn's chest, arm and hand.

 

“That’s how you deal with a wild beast, Nester!” the one who threw the spear pulled his horse to a stop right behind Dorn. He grabbed a hold of the shaft and gave it a vicious jerk, forcing the half-orc to his knee. Humiliated and tasting his own blood behind his gnashed teeth, Dorn was not about to go down like a dog. He kicked his punctured leg out and yanked the rider down with it. His heart pounding like mad, he twisted his torso and sunk the blazing dagger into the man’s neck. Then he tore it out, and the gash sprayed hot blood all over him. The remaining thugs gasped.

 

 _Four men, is that all I can take on without my sword?_ Dorn asked himself angrily, fighting the dizziness from the blood loss. He grabbed the spear shaft that was poking from his leg in front and snapped it, then yanked the rest of it from the back. His trousers soaked up the initial spout of gore, while the rest of it trickled down to his boot. He spat another mouthful of blood and prepared for the next attack, but there was nothing he could do to protect himself from the bolt that sunk right above his heart. He groaned in pain, then bared his teeth at the pigman, who cowered behind his fat lackey, looking down at him with fear, his bald head glistening with sweat in the sun that had finally made its way through the clouds. _I was heading the right way_ , Dorn thought, as his vision went blurry. “Cut off his arms and legs, then bind them,” ordered the pigman with a yelp.

 

“But master, the reward was for his death, was it not?” Nester argued, unwilling to take another step towards the bleeding half-orc.

 

“Death will come for him soon enough, but not before he begs for it. After my cousin gets his hands on him, he will learn the folly of opposing Hakka the Red and his Ruby Talons. Only then will you deliver his head, personally, and claim the prize for our great leader.”

 

“Y-yes, sire,” the old man muttered, resigned, then took a step forward, motioning for the others to follow his lead.

 

_Is this where I’m meant to die? Dorn Il-Khan, beaten down by a pack of yapping scavengers?_

 

Nester raised his sword, aiming to cut off Dorn's left arm.

 

_No, it’ll take more than these scratches to stop me._

 

The slice came out sluggish. Dorn whipped his arm at the old man’s neck, clamping his fist around his throat. His side seared in pain, as the thug behind him stabbed him in the lower back. His leg buckled underneath him, but as he collapsed, he closed his fist and tore at Nester’s wrinkled neck, taking a good chunk of the worn-out flesh with him. The old man clamped his hands over the wound, but it was too late for him, and he collapsed to his knees and died, his blood shooting out from his neck like a fountain. _Five down, three to go_ , Dorn thought but his body refused to move.

 

“Get him, quickly, before he finishes all of you good-for-nothings,” Ymar demanded and sent a clumsy kick into Firenzo’s meaty leg. The man glanced at his remaining comrade, then made his horse take a hesitant step forward. The other thug booted Dorn in the punctured side, forcing him on his back. He saw the clouds chasing fast above the rooftops and two vague silhouettes at the edge of his vision raising their swords.

 

 _Curse you, gods of death, you won’t take me that easily_ , he thought and swung at one of his remaining enemies but missed the mark completely. For a moment, his vision swam back into focus, and he saw Firenzo sneer in triumph.

 

_Thwunk!_

 

A bolt burst through one of the fat man's beady eyes, lodging itself in his skull. The man collapsed on top of Dorn, the gore from his head oozing onto the half-orc’s naked chest and his weight knocking the breath out of him. Barely holding onto consciousness, Dorn heard the approaching sound of more horses and someone shouting out orders to stand down and surrender. The huge shadow of the pigman and his steed flew past him, followed by a few others giving chase, while the remaining bandit dropped his sword and fell to his knees, pleading for his life, as golden-helmed guards swarmed around him.

 

The last thing Dorn felt was someone pulling the meaty corpse off of him, then prying the dagger out from his fingers, leaving him with nothing but the coppery taste of betrayal.

  
  
  
  



	5. The Seeker's Woeful Slip-ups

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes escaping from the web of one spider lands you in the clutches of another.

 

“Hello? Brother Ramon?” Anqi pushed back his ginger fringe from his eyes in exasperation--it was getting too long again, he decided--and then very carefully touched the rounded belly that was rising and falling right in front of him. The monk it belonged to grunted in his sleep. Anqi skipped back a step and froze like a statue, but the brother only scratched the spot, sighed and continued snoozing unperturbed. “Alright, I think he’s asleep,” Anqi whispered to himself, pleased. 

 

He left his guardian to enjoy his dreams in the shade of a gnarled pine tree and, picking up his specially pruned stick, set out to join his sister in the nearby flower field. The thick, lush grass speckled by purple, yellow and white flowers was almost tall enough to tickle his nose, but he could spot her pink head bobbing back and forth in tune with some melody she's picked up with ease due to his sensitive eyes. Just like always when they played out in the field, he had to shield them from the glaring sun, but it did little to help in the end. The leaves on the surrounding trees, the flowers and even Imoen seemed to give off a glow in the sunlight that made it unpleasant for Anqi to stay outside for too long. Candlekeep’s gloomy hallways and candlelit studies were much gentler to his eyes, but also insufferably dull. He felt at home out in the green, and he wasn’t going to let something as trivial as the sun ruin his fun. Twirling his stick-sword in the manner he'd picked up from the guards during their drills, he approached his sister from the back, hoping to sneak up on her and give her a little scare. He was quiet as a shadow cat, creeping up closer and closer. But then, when he was merely a metre away from her, she turned and yelled. Anqi jumped, startled, and nearly let go of his stick.

 

“Ha! I could hear you from all the way over there,” Imoen giggled and pointed at the sleeping monk, a huge, smug grin plastered on her pink pie-face. Clicking his tongue in dejection, Anqi admitted she got him this time. Her chest puffed out with pride, Imoen brushed the grass off her knees and got up, then handed him a crown of daisies and cats ears. “Here you go, Adrian, my best work yet! I was thinking you should be the prince today, and I’ll be Coerilos.”

 

He snorted. “How many times do I need to tell you not to call me that anymore? My name is Anqi now! And no, you can’t be Coerilos.” He looked over the flower crown and nodded with approval. Imoen was getting really good at making them. 

 

“Why not?” The girl put her fists on her hips, trying to imitate Gorion’s stern look.

 

“Because _I’m_ Coerilos, silly,” Anqi explained, then grabbed her hand and led her towards their favourite cliffside spot, where the trees were especially twisted and easy to climb. They could see the whole sea from their tops, and often pretended they were their castles or pirate ships.

 

“But that’s just it! You’re always him! I want to be a pirate this time!” Imoen protested and dug her heels into the ground. Anqi groaned dramatically.

 

“Have you ever heard of a seven-year-old girl being a pirate?”

 

“No, but I’ve never heard of a ten-year-old boy being one either! Besides, when I asked Gorion, he said there are girl pirates too!”

 

He let her hand slip from his grasp. “Immy! I told you not to tell him about what we’re playing! Nevermind, you can’t be Coerilos anyway and that’s that.” At that, her blue eyes filled with tears and her cheeks turned red. He knew she’d be pouting the rest of the afternoon if she didn’t get her way, so he sighed and surrendered his stick to her. “Alright, fine, you can be a pirate just this once, as long as you don’t complain later that you didn’t like it. Let’s see… You can be Treylaw, Coerilos’ nemesis.” He looked around the shrubs and the trees, then snatched the flower crown and threw it onto a high branch of a particularly twisted pine. “And we’ll be fighting over the princess Gerda’s golden tiara, like in volume four.”

 

“Gotcha!” Imoen beamed, her missing baby tooth making the smile look goofy, and lifted the long stick in both hands, all trace of tears long gone. _Faker_. Anqi chuckled, then blew away his fringe and broke off a short, sword-sized branch off a nearby tree. When he got rid of the leaves, he raised his new weapon to meet hers.

 

“Aha! Treylaw, you scoundrel! You think you could steal Gerda’s priceless tiara before me? In your dreams, bastard!”

 

Imoen’s eyes widened. “Anqi! We’re not supposed to say that word!”

 

“I’m Coerilos Blackscale—I can say whatever I please and you can’t stop me, you pox-faced sea bass!” He swung lightly at her stick. The impact made her yelp and let go.

 

“Ow! No fair, I wasn’t ready yet,” she groused, blowing at her stumpy fingers. He twisted the stick around in his slim ones, pleased at his revenge for earlier.

 

“A pirate must always be ready! Come on, Immy. You gotta play the part and at least try to fight me, otherwise, it’s _so_ boring,” he said, grinning. The girl’s cheeks grew red once again; she was so easy to tease.

 

“I’ll show you this time,” Imoen said as she picked up her stick and swung hard at Anqi’s head. He parried it with ease and let her fall forward with the momentum, but caught her before she hit the ground. He laughed. She growled. “Unhand me you… you sea-loving, er, rum-drinking rogue!” She wriggled out of his grasp and swung again. This time he blocked it, then pushed back gently.

 

“That’s better, you scurvy dog,” he grinned, then blocked and parried a few more hits, careful not to be too rough, pretending she was forcing him back around the tree with the flower crown. Once his back hit the trunk, he evaded the next hit by hiding behind it, then leapt to grab onto the lowest branch with one hand. “You’ll never catch me, Treylaw the Slow!” he taunted her, then swung and lept over her, landing with cat-like grace. Spinning, he poked her lightly on the shins. Imoen moaned in frustration, then resumed her pursuit, her strikes growing slower and less accurate. “Come on, Immy, you’re not even trying.”

 

“Be quiet,” she snapped at him while making a cute, grumpy face. Some of her hair had fallen out of her short ponytail, making her resemble a fluffy, pink ball of anger. “I can’t help you’re stronger than me. Gorion doesn’t let me train with swords like you do!”

 

“He doesn’t let me either, but I still do it. You’re just too much of a goodie-two-shoes and listen to everything he tells you like a good little baby you are,” he mocked her, pretending to sound like a toddler. 

 

“I’m not!” she stopped abruptly and threw the stick at him. Taken by surprise, he narrowly dodged it from hitting him on the head.

 

“Hey! Be careful with that!” he yelled and went to retrieve it from a holly bush, where it had lodged itself. When he turned around, she was gone, a flowering branch of wild roses swaying where she’d gone past it. “Immy?” _Rats_ , he thought and ran after her. For a slightly chubby little girl, she was awfully fast.

 

He ran all the way to the meadow when he finally saw her darting towards the winding path that led to Candlekeep’s gates. Pushing his legs to carry him faster than ever before, he caught up to her halfway to the tree with the sleeping monk. When he grabbed her wrist, she yelled right into his face, “Let me go!”

 

“Quiet!” he stuck his finger to his lips. She kicked him in the shin to escape his grasp. “Ow! Are you daft?” he whispered but held on tight.

 

“Let go, or I’ll show you who’s a goodie-two-shoes! I’ll tell Gorion you’ve been doing things behind his back again.”

 

The last time he got in trouble with his foster father was when he and Imoen got caught stealing bottles of mead from Winthrop’s pantry only to replace them with empty ones they’d filled with water. He was forced to clean every one of the monks’ sleeping cells and all the privies for a whole week. It had been the worst. “No, you won’t,” he hissed and yanked her arm hard. She grimaced in pain, and the tears flowed this time, but unlike earlier, he didn’t care. “If you tell him anything, you’ll no longer be my sister and I’ll never, ever play with you ever again.”

 

“Lemme go!” she screeched and tried to bite his hand. He shoved her before she could sink her teeth in. Losing her balance, she fell on her back with a pained gasp. Anqi jumped on top of her and held down her arms above her head, trapping her. “Get off me, get off!” She screamed and kicked like a scared piglet, tossing her head from side to side, her face red like a tomato.

 

“Stop wriggling, Imoen! Just keep quiet and swear you won’t tell Gorion, and I won’t hurt you.”

 

Instead of giving him a reply, the girl started sobbing, her wails loud enough to wake the dead. “Hey, what’s going on there!?” a raspy voice called out suddenly. 

 

_Great_ , Anqi groaned inwardly, then got off Imoen, before brother Ramon came upon them. 

 

“What happened?” he huffed.

 

“We were just playing and she tripped,” Anqi lied and tried to pull her up, but she twisted her arms out of his sweaty grasp. 

 

“And what is this?” the monk asked, pointing to her reddened wrist where he’d squeezed her. “Back to the keep with you, right now! I’ll be telling Gorion what you’ve done today,” he said, his voice cold, as he knelt and gently scooped Imoen in his arms, then gasped with effort as he lifted her.

 

“No! I didn’t do anything wrong, I swear!” Anqi argued, but the monk had stomped off without giving him another glance. For a split second, he thought about running, there and then, just like he did two years ago, but he knew that it wouldn’t work. Last time, Gorion had roused the whole monastery and the garrison and had even summoned several men from the nearby village to help to look for him. Anqi had made it a few kilometres away from the coast before they found him hiding in a tree, and dragged him back to Candlekeep kicking and screaming. For that, he had to help in the kitchens for two months and wasn’t allowed to go outside for another six. This time, he reckoned, his punishment for running would be much more severe. Surely, being rough with Imoen wouldn’t make his foster father be as harsh, would it? Practising with swords in secret wasn’t that much of a big deal either, he hoped, but somewhere in the back of his mind, a black dread began spreading all over him. Defeated, he lowered his head and followed the monk all the way to the keep, then up the steep and narrow stairs leading to Gorion’s tower study. Brother Ramon told him to wait outside while their guardian attended to Imoen within.

 

Not twenty minutes passed when the monk escorted the cry-baby out. She didn’t even have the guts to look at him and stared at her feet, as he was left alone with his grim-faced foster father. When she was gone, he ushered him into his chamber with just a wave of his hand. As always, the gloomy, stone room was illuminated by more than thirty candles, some tall and thin, some chunky and almost burned out. All the available surfaces were stacked with books and scrolls, even the chair where he was told to sit. He moved the heavy tomes first, then did as ordered, keeping his mouth shut, which he’d learned was the best way to approach a scolding from Gorion.

 

His foster father sat across him and leaned over his wide, oak desk, propping his head on his elbow, his wrinkled fingers massaging the folds of skin between his bushy eyebrows. He didn’t even sigh like he tended to do whenever Anqi was late with his chores or made a mistake during calligraphy practice, but looked at him with exhaustion and sadness in his grey eyes. Anqi shifted in his chair and licked his lips. Finally, after what felt like forever, Gorion took a deep breath.

 

“Your sister is alright, in case you were wondering,” he said, and Anqi couldn’t help but feel a twinge of anger. Of course, she was fine! He only pushed her a little bit, he wanted to argue but said nothing. Gorion must have noticed his defiance because his gaze turned harsh. “How many times have I told you never to use violence against others, especially those weaker than you? And how often must I forbid you to practice with swords or any kinds of other weapons before it sinks in?”

 

_Too often, and always without a good reason_ , Anqi answered in his head. “I only use a wooden sword.”

 

“It makes no difference, Adrian!” Gorion barked and slammed his fist on the table. “Steel swords or wooden, or even sticks—you can easily wound someone if you forget your strength.”

  
  


A lump grew in Anqi's throat. “Then let me practice kicks and punches with brother Alaan and brother Sinkhar! That way I won’t even touch a weapon.”

 

“Not this again. I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it over until you finally understand: you are never to fight, period.”

 

Tears stung his eyes and he rubbed them away before he embarrassed himself. “But why!? You never tell me why I can’t do the things you forbid me to do. No reading about wars, no swords—heck, you don’t even like me talking to the visiting warriors or even the guards! I don’t understand it.”

 

Gorion’s scowl grew softer, and he sighed. “You’ll understand one day. For now, you must do what I ask of you. As for today’s misbehaviour, I’ve decided that as punishment you are not to leave the keep until I deem it appropriate.”

 

Anqi jumped to his feet and slammed both hands on the cluttered table, knocking the nearby inkpot over. “You can’t!”

 

“That’s for attacking your sister,” Gorion said calmly, ignoring his outburst and the ink spilling over the parchments and down on the floor. He stared Anqi straight in his eyes, no trace of sadness left. “For lying to me and to brother Ramon, you will be moved to the lower cells for a month so that you may reflect on the evils of deception. You are to meditate in order to find inner peace, which you are sorely lacking.”

 

All the blood drained from Anqi's face. “No, not the cells! Please father!” he begged, his voice breaking. He’d made his way below the keep’s library floors a few time during his secret nightly explorations, but the damp and pitch-black corridors and tiny, barred cells always gave him the creeps. He used to scare Imoen with stories about skeletons of dead thieves who had tried to steal the books from Candlekeep, but he sometimes wondered whether that could actually be true. Surely, Gorion wouldn’t send him there, if it was full of dead people, would he? “Please, I promise I’ll never hit anyone. I’ll never lie!”

 

Gorion raised his hand to silence him, then went over to the door. Outside, brother Frederek was already waiting. The tall, square-shouldered man placed his large and heavy hand on Anqi’s shoulder, urging him to move along.

 

“No, please, I’ll be better!” Anqi pleaded again, but his foster father had already turned away from him and slammed the door shut. 

 

The way down the winding stairs seemed to take only an instant before the brother pushed him into a tiny cell. There was barely enough room to take three steps in any direction. In one corner was a pile of damp hay covered with a dirty rag that was meant to be his bed and in the other a small bucket. He didn’t want to think about the bucket. The bars rattled as the monk shut the door, and the jangling of the keys was as loud as clapping thunder when he locked him in. “Gorion is wrong about you,” Frederek said, looking at him as if he were some disgusting insect he wanted to squish under his sandal. “No punishment can fix what you really are.”

 

“What I am? What do you mean by that?” Anqi grabbed the bars. The monk laughed, his voice sinister and cold.

 

“You are an evil child, Adrian. Or should I call you Anqi?” The man leaned in close and grinned at him, his yellow teeth uneven, and the smell coming from his mouth like a mix of onions and manure. Anqi covered his nose; he knew this smell from somewhere. “The old fool thinks he can scare you enough to bury the truth, but blood will come through in the end. Although, I do wonder which of the gods you are truly the spawn of.”

 

Anqi frowned, confused at this strange monk he now realised he did not know at all. “Gods?” 

 

_Yes_ , he heard someone whisper in his head. It was a voice Anqi knew from somewhere. _You are the child of an evil god, a cruel god. You have the power to hurt and destroy, and you’ll never be free of it._

 

Chills ran down his spine. The monk vanished in front of him and the stone corridor seemed to stretch on forever and ever. Nausea overwhelmed him and he stumbled back, hitting his head on the cold stone floor. He clutched at the hurt spot and squeezed his eyes shut at the pain, but when he opened them again, the sensation was gone, and he was back above ground and inside the main library hall, bent over an enormous book. Its yellow pages were filled with ancient runes he’d never seen before, and yet he read them out loud fluently.

 

“Well done, my boy,” Gorion said with pride as he rubbed his shoulder with affection. Opposite of him sat Imoen, and she grinned, her smile full and white. There were dimples in her cheeks and her hair was tied in two braids, much longer than he'd ever seen it. But the strangest was the two mounds growing on her chest. Anqi blinked at her, struggling to comprehend what he was seeing.

 

“Gee, who’s the good son now?” she asked him with a hint of mockery. Gorion gave her a disapproving glance. “Preparing the whole chapter, when we only needed to learn the first paragraph. You’re such a bookworm, Adrian.”

 

“Hey, I couldn’t help it,” Anqi heard himself say, his voice both deeper and squeakier than ever, then pushed a long strand of fine coppery hair behind his pierced ear. “The language of the Old Empire is fascinating, and you are definitely missing out on some great stories in this book.”

 

Gorion chuckled, while Imoen rolled her eyes. “More than just stories—this is the history of some of the once powerful countries. And remember what I always taught you about learning history?”

 

“That we must preserve and study it so that we don’t make the same mistakes as our ancestors did," Anqi recited, then looked at her sister with pity. "I learned from my mistakes, and so should you, Imoen; you spend too much time sneaking around like some common thief. You’re almost fifteen, and you should find a better way to spend your time than imitating those silly children's stories,” Anqi told her sternly but gently, which only earned him another bored look. 

 

“You used to be more fun,” Imoen said and stuck her tongue at him. He shrugged, and went back to the text, but not before catching a glimpse of Gorion’s pleased expression.

 

_Keep lapping it up, old fool, and one day I’ll make you pay for everything_ , a hateful voice echoed in his head, accompanied by a burning inside his loins so intense he had to press down on his stomach to keep himself composed. Something brushed against his ear, and suddenly the library was shrouded in thick darkness except for a lone candle illuminating the book in front of him. Gorion had vanished, and Imoen’s unimpressed face was also melting into the encroaching black void.

 

“Ah, how quickly they grow,” the same unknown voice from before spoke beside him, but when he snapped his head in that direction, there was nothing there. “Bhaal may have been your father, but I see so much of me in you, my boy.” Something rustled below, and when Anqi inspected the book, its letters were no longer confined to their rows but were jumbled and formed a wrinkled face on the pages. It cackled, and Anqi shot up from his chair. He lost his balance as his lanky legs caught on one another, yet he never fell and was suspended in air. Meanwhile, the face emerged from the book, pulling the yellow paper along with it, stretching and contorting until it formed into a head and a body. Darkness swirled around it to become its cloak, and the wrinkled man advanced on him, reaching out with a bony, sallow hand, a toothless grin stretching his gruesome face wide. “You may have lost the blessings of Murder, but your lies have become your new power. Just look at you,” the grotesque old man said and handed Anqi a mirror of polished black stone. The realisation startled him and he let go of the artefact, only to see it break into hundreds of tiny shards and then dissolve into thin air. “Oh! It brings a tear to my eye!”

 

“Get away from me! I met you in Arrabar—how can you be here!?” the half-elf yelled and pushed the old man away, his voice sounding older still. He twisted his arms in front of him and saw them covered in scars, the most prominent one being the ritual cut on his left palm.

 

The toothless soothsayer howled, but he sounded completely different, his laughter growing more high pitched and reverberating in Anqi's head. The ground under Anqi's feet engulfed him, and everything around him turned grey. He was falling, his body spinning around helplessly, the indistinct matter around him confusing his senses until he no longer could perceive the pull of gravity. Then he felt something solid under his feet once again and the momentum of his fall was gone as if he’d been standing in the same place all along. A man sauntered out of the grey nothingness, fanning the air as if he was trying to chase away some persistent fly. As strange as the entire ordeal was, it was the wide smile on the man's pale, luminescent face that made Anqi question his sanity. It couldn’t be… could it? 

 

“I’ve been waiting for you, Anqi. You do remember me, don’t you?”

 

“Cyric!” the half-elf growled and took a step back but somehow didn’t move at all, and was forced to remain frozen in place while the Prince of Lies approached him at a steady, leisurely pace. When Anqi tried to move again, the god gave him a pitiful look. “What do you want?” Anqi demanded. Instead of an answer, cold fingers caressed his jaw and a soothing voice whispered in his ear.

 

“Tut-tut, so tough, aren’t you, my boy?”

 

Anqi aimed an elbow into the god’s stomach but managed to hit only the odd, grey mist. Cyric appeared out of nowhere on his left and kissed his cheek with a smack.

 

“So feisty! I like me a bit of roughness. It's good to see that your half-orc husband's brashness is rubbing off on you. I suppose I’ll use this chance to belatedly wish you all the luck in your married life.”

 

“Don’t talk about him! Speak some sense and tell me where I am!”

 

Cyric skipped away from another strike with ease as if this place’s rules didn’t matter to him at all. “Why, you’re a clever chap, Anqi. I’m sure you can tell this is the great Kelemvor’s waiting room, can’t you? You were such a diligent, little student not a few moments ago. Surely you must’ve read about this place. It is everyone’s destination of choice, after all!”

 

“The Fugue Plane!? But that’s a place for the dead…” Anqi frowned, then clamped his hands over his suddenly naked chest. A searing pain exploded in his torso and he collapsed to his knees, bending in half from the overwhelming sensation. Gnashing his teeth and gasping for breath, he begged for the agony to end. Then he felt a weight on his back. As if lounging on a park bench on a beautiful day, Cyric sat on him, his legs crossed and his back resting on thin air.

 

“Awfully drab, if I do say so myself. You’d think the Lord of the Dead could spruce up his antechamber a little to make you mortals feel more welcome. But I guess he is just that busy judging the innumerable sins within your little souls, which gives me just enough time to sneak into his realm for a chat with my favourite flesh-bag,” the god of lies said and patted Anqi’s head affectionately, then leapt off and pulled him up. The half-elf shot up as if he weighed nothing, the pain in his chest gone. He felt the ground appear under his feet once again, as well as Cyric’s unwelcome embrace. Then he noticed he was fully naked and covered himself with his hands. Cyric blew a raspberry. “Please! I’ve been watching you for a while now, and I’ve already grown bored of seeing your parts. Frankly, I’m not all that impressed. Which leads me to the reason why I am here. You died! How’d you let that happen, my little bundle of deceit, you?”

 

Anqi tried to remember the moments before waking up here, but it was a blur of fire and pain. “I…”

 

Cyric clicked his tongue and slapped Anqi's back. It stung like being whipped by stinging nettles that were made from steel. “Alright, fine! Don’t hurt yourself! I will tell you how: it’s because your lie failed! As the killer of your daddy, and thus a sort-of honorary father figure, I must say I am awfully disappointed in you.”

 

Something brushed against Anqi’s leg and he looked down, only to catch a glimpse of a shadowy tail slinking away into the grey mist. A shiver ran down his spine. He turned back to glare at Cyric. “Spoken like a true father then. If you’ve been watching me so intently, then you’ll know I wouldn’t give a damn what you or any other gods think.”

 

“Mm, yes, indeed. Anqi, the denier of Gods and Fate, a self-made man and husband,” Cyric mocked, pursing his purple lips, then grabbed Anqi by the lapels of a ruined vest that suddenly appeared over his chest. “I would applaud the fervour with which you lie to yourself if it weren’t so counterproductive. Hasn’t your beloved always told you to be more honest about who you are and what you want? You’re a liar and a cheat, and I do love your moxie, so, by all means, keep up with your lies and cheating! Just make sure you don’t commit more blunders! This death was all on you, just because you hesitated.”

 

“Shut up!” Anqi wrested away from the god’s grasp only to be pulled back in. In Cyric's solid black eyes that looked like polished marble, he saw his own reflection laughing at him. 

 

“Your denial is so frightful, you know?" Cyric giggled. "But you shouldn’t aim it at me. Trust your new foster-daddy when he says you need to do better next time. And maybe, just maybe, when you die when it _is_ your time to die, I’ll have an interesting offer waiting for you.”

 

The thing in the mist touched him again, and this time Anqi spotted its red eyes as it circled around the god’s feet. Then he noticed sinister whispers echoing close by, some spouting barely audible words at him, while some were more akin to the drone of insects. Faint silhouettes began forming in the distance as well; humanoids and other more demonic shapes were slowly creeping towards them. The hairs on his arms rose, but he tried to keep his voice even. “And if I say no, will you have your minions jump me again just like in the pocket plane?”

 

Cyric’s eyebrows shot up. “Jump you? Oh, no, sonny, that was only a bit of fun back then, nothing more. And besides, I may be the best liar in all of the Planes, but I do know how to express gratitude. Your ever-so-foolish-but-undeniably-bold refusal of your father’s throne did leave Bhaal’s portfolio for me to snatch up. And simply put, it had been delightful. Murder and deceit make such a strong combination, but I suppose you’d know all about that, given your last few years, hm?” The god slapped Anqi's face lightly, then motioned for the shadow coiling around their feet to head towards the silhouettes. It slithered away and the others cowered before its soft hiss. “It seems other souls awaiting the Judge of the Damned have grown curious about us, and I believe we’ve both overstayed our welcome, so buck up, my boy, and make papa Cyric proud,” he said and straightened Anqi’s singed leather armour over his chest, then finished the fussing by fixing his bandana over his left eye. “And remember the lesson you yourself learned in that dank cell all those years ago: if someone accuses you of lying, don’t deny it! And keep trying in your falsifying until they buy it!”

 

Anqi didn't remember his mantra rhyming, but the words he had told himself over and over in the cell underneath Candlekeep carried the same message of spite against Gorion and his punishment. He had repeated them during his meditation until he no longer had to think about them, and he would ponder ways of contradicting his despised foster father whenever he laid to rest. By the time he was allowed to return to his own room and to go outside in the sun, he had been set on imbuing his every word with contrition. It had taken a lot of patience and self-restraint playing the model student and son, but eventually, his act of repentance was so believable he was able to fool each and every one of the monks and, most importantly, his most attentive keeper, Gorion himself. Each sentence he’d uttered was designed to show how the punishment had changed him, each white lie honing his skills, until the crowning moment came a few years later, when he told Gorion how much he loved and appreciated him. The old fool had been so touched, Anqi saw his ever-strict jailer shed tears for the first time. That was when he knew he would be able to fool anyone and everyone.

 

As if reading his mind, or perhaps actually doing so, Cyric smiled and hummed. “Yes, but make sure you try extra hard with that big, brute husband of yours, now that he’s onto you. I wouldn’t want to see you back here too soon. Ah! Right on time too,” he said and stepped away from Anqi, whose body began to glow.

 

“What—?”

 

“As I've said, your lies have given you power. Your half-orc might have seen through them, but there are plenty of blind sheep for you to shepherd. Use them wisely, my dear, and until we meet again, I shall be watching your deceit with great interest.”

 

The pale-faced god blew him a kiss and then faded into the grey mist, while Anqi’s limbs grew heavy and the glow around him became bright until it blinded him. A sudden tug at the centre of his back made him fall, the pain sharper and sharper with every passing second until he gasped and snapped his eyes open.

 

As if the mist had followed him, he could only see a blurry silhouette above him. Gradually it grew into focus and became his half-sister, just as his ears slowly adjusted to picking up sounds again. Shrill as always, he heard her call out: 

 

“He’s awake! Anqi’s awake!”

 

*

 

His eyes adjusted to the candlelight quickly, but being able to see the damned things covering all of the surfaces around the room didn’t bring him any joy; a mountain of candles was definitely not what he’d want for his wake. A moonlit forest pyre, or better yet, a burial at sea, where the waves would sweep away what the flames left behind. No witnesses, no whispered curses nor prayers, only him and the element he so longed for.

 

_I suppose that’s what I get when Imoen’s in charge_ , he thought with returning spite. _And nothing to drink, either_. His throat was parched and his lips were stuck together. He licked them and tried to move, but a stinging around his chest made it impossible. Hissing, he threw the thin cover away to find his entire upper body wrapped up tightly in linen, with a few dried dark red splotches located above his heart. Grimacing at the memory of how he acquired the wound, he propped himself on his elbow, but that was as far as he managed before he got interrupted. 

 

“What are you doing?” a startled voice came from the doorway. Imoen, followed by Jazim and two of his maids, rushed to his side and pushed him down gently. “You have to stay still and rest, or you’ll disturb your wound. Jazim had called a druid to look after you and he did all he could, but you need to take it easy, alright? You almost…” her voice broke and she teared up. The merchant walked up behind her and put a hand on her shoulder. She turned her head away.

 

“This might be disturbing news to you, friend, but I reckon it’s better you knew it right away; Anqi, you died today.”

 

Rolling his eyes, the rogue slapped away Imoen’s hand and forced his body to obey his commands. The sting in his chest bothered him, but being treated like some cripple was worse. He cleared his throat and noticed the ache in his neck muscles. “I think I might’ve noticed,” he said dryly, his voice sounding rough. Jazim waved for a servant to fill a cup for him. It was Mia who completed the task, and she looked faint when she handed him the water. He nodded in thanks, then gulped it down and asked for another. After the second cup, he turned back to his host and to his visitor, while trying feebly to loosen the taut bandages around his chest with. His fingers felt too thick and he couldn't get a grip on the linen. “What time is it? And more importantly, where is—”

 

“Just after midnight,” Imoen answered, wiping her face, her eyes red and puffy. “You’ve been unconscious for over ten hours. I—We’ve been so worried; even when the druid said you were going to be alright, you wouldn’t wake up and I thought…” She trailed off again, but shook herself back to normal, forcing a big smile on her puffy face. “Nevermind—as long as you’re alive, nothing else matters.”

 

“Right... I still need to know where—”

 

“The druid also made a special salve for your chest!” she cried suddenly and picked up a small bottle from the bedside table. She struggled to open it, then, when she finally uncorked it, she made a disgusted face. “Uh, it smells kind of funky, but it’s meant to be really good for burns. The druid did warn your skin might never look like it used to, but I wouldn’t worry! I’m sure you’ll still look good, even—”

 

“Imoen!” Anqi snapped and banged his fist on the soft mattress. The pain in his chest flared up, but the outburst made his half-sister’s mouth finally shut—her voice was making his head hurt. “I don’t care about any druids or my looks. I just need to know where Dorn is.”

 

All the warmth in her eyes vanished as if he’d blown it out like a candle, and was replaced by frigid disdain. She clenched her jaw in defiance and averted his gaze.

 

“Anqi, please, you should be kinder to your sister. She did save your life,” Jazim chimed in, giving Imoen a friendly pat on the back. “After she chased away that brute, she found a resurrection rod in your belongings and cast the spell on you. Without her intervention, getting you to the temple before your insides cooked would have been difficult, nay, impossible. We all owe her a lot.”

 

Anqi felt lightheaded. “‘Intervention’? ‘Chased away’? What happened to him? Where is he!?” he hissed, then curled in pain. Imoen reached out to lay him down again. “Don’t touch me!” he barked and grasped his throat—suddenly, it was hard to breathe. 

 

“Calm yourself, friend,” the merchant insisted sternly. “You may not remember, but your so-called partner stabbed you, and when Imoen wisely separated you two, he ran away like a coward. I’ve alarmed the city guard and sent my men to look for him, but so far there have been no sightings. He’s gone to the ground, perhaps, if the gods permit it, literally.”

 

“Call them off, right now!" Anqi snapped once again. Then he remembered whom he was speaking to and tried to calm himself. He swallowed a thick lump. "Please. There is no way Dorn would ever run, and if anyone comes after him, he will fight back. You’re just sending men to their deaths.”

 

“You’re wrong,” Imoen said through clenched teeth. “I’ve smoked his hide with my magic, and he slipped away like a thief in the night. There’s no reason why he’d return unless he wants to get roasted by another of my Dragon's Breaths.”

 

Anqi felt like laughing, but that would hurt too much. Instead, he swung his legs off the bed on the opposite side of the pesky twosome and reached out to Mia. “Help, please,” he said through gritted teeth. The girl hesitated for a split second, then put away the jug of water and let him lean on her shoulder as he pushed himself up. His knees felt like they were made out of straw, and his head was swimming like after a most extraordinary libation, but other than that and the discomfort around his torso, he felt fine. 

 

Jazim barked something in Turmic, and the girl froze. She looked at Anqi with huge and fearful eyes, and he guessed the merchant wasn’t pleased with her enthusiasm to assist him.

 

“Please, she’s just trying to help,” he said in her defence and tried to use his charm on his host, but his smile felt weak even to him. Luckily, Jazim was even a bigger sucker for him than Anqi had expected and after a moment's hesitation, let the girl carry on with a dismissive wave. 

 

“You’d think after giving all these orphans work and a roof over their heads, they’d be more obedient to their master, but fine. She’s yours to command. However, I must know about what you intend to do about our guests’ plans for Saemon Havarian.”

 

Anqi had forgotten all about the pirate and, at the moment, didn’t really care about his fate. But he couldn’t let Imoen use this chance to take him to Aran Linvail. It seemed he had little choice but to ask the merchant for help. “Would you be so kind as to watch over him until I resolve this... situation?”

 

Jazim smiled and puffed out his chest as if he knew the request was bound to come and he could play the gracious host yet again. “But of course. I’ll gladly do you this favour, my friend. I’ll Saemon here and, while you do what it is you're planning, I'll have the ship repaired. I’ve already reassured the crew members whom you’ve met that everything is under control, and the sailors who have arrived with our good captain I’ve sent to stay at the tavern. I also had another druid sent to look over their wounds,” he listed his deeds with a hint of smugness, each new matter he’d taken care of weighing heavier and heavier on Anqi’s conscience. 

 

_ Maybe Dorn was right; I am relying on Jazim too much.  _

 

“Aside from scratches and minor magic burns, they are in good health, if somewhat disgruntled about the ending of their trek,” Jazim concluded.

 

“You are magical, Jazim. I can’t thank you enough,” Anqi said, putting a lot of effort in sounding genuine. From the way the merchant smirked, he guessed it must have worked. Imoen, meanwhile, was looking more alarmed.

 

“Wait, is that it? You’ll handle all that, while he goes out risking his neck? He can’t leave yet, he’s too weak and he—”

 

“‘He’ is a bloody adult and will do as ‘he’ damn pleases,” the half-elf cut in, tired of her inane chatter. He then pointed to the chair where his clothes and bags were so Mia could walk him over. She sat him down and waited for more commands, so he handed her one of his bags. “Find me something to wear, please,” he said, then remembered she wasn’t supposed to understand him, so he mimed putting on a shirt. She glanced back at Jazim, and the merchant offered a needless translation. With that, the girl knelt by the chair and began going through the contents of his bag with care, letting out a surprised gasp when she realised it was bigger on the inside. Anqi smiled, then turned to the other two. “Do you mind?”

 

“When you are done and haven’t changed your mind about going out, I shall give you an escort. One cannot be too safe, even though I do think that the beast is most likely long gone.”

 

_Bloody unlikely_ , Anqi thought, furious at Jazim for disparaging his partner, but tried to be polite. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.” His face falling, Jazim shrugged, then tried to usher Imoen out, but she stood rooted to her spot, so he gave Anqi a final glance and left.

 

“Please, Anqi, you aren’t thinking straight!” Imoen insisted, her face red in the soft glow of the candles. He ignored her and started pulling on a soft, green tunic Mia found for him. Imoen crossed the room and snatched it away. “I can’t let you do this! Not after I saw him stab you so viciously. And over what? Just because you didn’t tell him of a fantasy you had as a kid? That’s insane— _he_  is insane, and there is no way you’re going anywhere near him, not when I still live and breathe.”

 

He grabbed the tunic and yanked on it hard, but at that moment, Imoen was stronger than him and it didn't budge. “Let go, you—!" He barely bit back a curse and clenched his teeth from the effort. "You’ve already caused enough damage and I don’t need you making it worse.”

 

Her grip slackened. He was able to free his piece of clothing and put it on, albeit slowly and with Mia's assistance, as Imoen stared at him, speechless. The silence didn’t last nearly as long as he’d like, however. “ _I’ve_ caused damage!? Just look at yourself! When I found you, your chest looked like someone had slaughtered a pig and threw it into a fire pit, and that was just from one stab! If I hadn’t arrived when I did, he would’ve turned you into smoking, bloody mush.”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Anqi hissed, then threw on the same leather vest he was wearing before; it was only a little singed and bloodied. Its magical protection would have helped him if he had actually fastened it properly after the dip in the sea.  _Dorn did always tell me to be mindful of my armour_ , he thought but chased the bitter memory away. “I’m hurt and my partner is missing all because you had to waggle your tongue about matters that don’t concern you, so you could at least do me the courtesy and get the Hells out of my sight.”

 

That finally got to her. Tears shining in her eyes again, she bit her lip hard. “What’s happened between you two to make you like this? Why are you defending that monster after what he’s done!? And it's not just this one attack; have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately? You look like a shadow of your former self; no one could ever take you for the hero of Baldur's Gate. You're so pale and your face…” She wiped moisture from her cheeks and reached out, her hand hovering over his face. “I saw that horrible scar you've got in place of the skull tattoo you used to have. Did he do—?”

 

Something inside Anqi snapped. He caught and twisted Imoen’s hand with viciousness he hadn't felt since he'd rid himself of the Bhaalspawn taint, and held her until she yelped in pain. It was pointless to continue past that point, so he released her, but he wasn't going to let the slight off that easily. “If you ever dare to finish what you were about to say, not even Hexxat will be able to drag you out of the Hell I'll send you to,” he growled, as his threat made his half-sister blanch. Spurred by her fear, he forgot about his wound and got up to face her properly. Imoen had a few centimetres on him, but that didn't prevent her from flinching. Anqi could see his twisted reflection in the whites of her eyes and could feel her shivering breath on his skin. He didn’t want to leave any room for further misunderstandings, so he said the next words with absolute resolve, each syllable honed to pierce Imoen’s thick skull with the utmost precision. “You’re nothing but a self-righteous, ignorant brat, and you know nothing about me. Stay out of my life.”

 

He wasn’t sure what happened first: Mia gasping or the slap that came at him from the right and not the left like he was expecting. “Fine then! I should’ve let him butcher you, you heartless idiot!” Imoen bawled at him, then spun on her heel and rushed out of the door.

 

Anqi disregarded his stinging cheek, and went back to rummage through his second bag, but seeing the serving girl’s intent gaze directed at the floor made him pause. He made her witness a part of him he had never shown to anyone—not even his partner—and put her in an awkward position. He should’ve done better by the sweet kid, he chided himself. _Dorn would have complained I'm being too soft_ , he thought, then smiled, despite a sudden and overwhelming sadness. _What he doesn’t know won’t kill him. Just me._ Sighing, he pulled out the chest full of pins. His fox was lost at the bottom of the pier, so he picked a green, purple and red lizard and, after a moment of appreciating the incredible craft on display, he attached it to his collar. Then he offered the chest to Mia. “Pick one.”

 

“I-I couldn’t! I’m not allowed. _Pasha_ says…”

 

“He says a lot. It’ll be our secret,” Anqi said with a grin. When she hesitated, he turned his expression serious. “Please, for helping me, and to make up for that bruise.”

 

She covered her right cheek, then looked down, flustered. “It was an accident…”

 

“I know. Take it anyway. You wouldn’t refuse a ' _rafayam_ ', would you?” He smiled softly. The girl sucked in her lip, a slight blush colouring her pale cheeks, which made Anqi certain he’d won. With a bow of her head, she plucked an obsidian and topaz bee out of the bunch. “A fine choice. Keep it with you at all times, I’m sure it’ll bring you luck.”

 

“Thank you, _rafayam_.” 

 

"Anqi, please."

 

"...Anqi." Blushing even harder, she slipped the gift into her tunic’s pocket. She then helped him fasten his belts and then tied his bandana for him, as he had trouble lifting his arms. The bandage over his face felt fresh and smelled vaguely of aloe instead of honey. He grimaced at his caretakers’ meddling but figured it was a fine replacement since his head wound was causing him no discomfort at the moment. When he was done preparing, Mia escorted him to the main foyer, and only then did he notice the room he’d been occupying was the red chamber Jazim had first offered him. _Stubborn, sneaky bastard_ , he reflected, but let it go for the moment. He had to focus on finding the other bastard, the one he did care about.

 

As they passed the guard at the front door and descended the stairs to the moonlit yard, Mia's hand tightened around his side. “Will you be alright?” she whispered so that only he could hear.

 

Surprised, he chuckled at her concern. “You don’t need to worry about me falling over. I’m sturdier than I look.”

 

“I meant with _rafayam's_ —with your friend. If he did this, then…” Her hand hovered around Anqi's chest, but then she withdrew it and touched her own bruise lightly.

 

He stepped out of her embrace to face her. “Listen to me. Dorn did hurt me, but it’s not the same as with you. I deserved it.”

 

“ _Pasha_ said I deserved it too, for doing something I shouldn't have done. I mean, I deserved the accident happening to me…”

 

He reached out to pet her head, but stopped, remembering her previous reaction. He clenched his fist, thinking about what he’d like to do to Jazim instead. “A scumbag like me will have horrible things happen to him, and that’s just fine. But a sweet kid like you? You should never go through something like that, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” 

 

Mia furrowed her brows in confusion so he gave her the best smile he could muster, and then departed. Despite his worries and the urge to find Dorn as soon as possible, he could do little more than lumber through the serene garden at a snail’s pace. It did allow the fragrances of the flowers and the soft shimmers of leaves to calm his frayed nerves, however, and help steel himself for the difficult reunion he was determined to have with his partner. He wasn’t quite sure how he was going to get Dorn to listen, or what he could possibly say to him that would alleviate the damage his deceit had already inflicted, but he wasn’t about to throw in the towel just yet.

 

He reached the gates of the mansion and passed by two guards, one finishing his rounds in the gardens and one right outside the estate. Neither of them said anything, but he could feel their stares and wondered whether any sort of gossip about what had happened had spread. He supposed it didn’t matter for now, and once Dorn was back, those foolish enough to remark upon it would regret it.

 

_Where’d you run off to, you big lug?_ he sighed, deliberating where to start his search, then aimed his heavy footsteps north towards the _Lusty Bride_. He was hoping to find someone, anyone who could supply him with even the smallest scrap of information, like a vagrant to point him in the right direction for a copper or two, or a few drops of blood that he could trace. When he finally arrived at the plaza by the harbour, however, he realised his plan would take him nowhere.

 

The whole of the grand square had become a noisome sea of writhing bodies, all gathering around the dragon fountain overhanging with twice as many beads and flowers as when he'd seen it the previous day. Upon a makeshift wooden platform that must have been erected while he was unconscious, the Joydancers of Lliira were leading the festivities, using their supple bodies to praise the idea of love to the upbeat music of the pipes and drums and the chanting of the crowd. There were eight immense, steel braziers scattered throughout the area, and in their fiery glow, Anqi saw how eager the revellers were to do their own share of praising in this hot, summer night. Suddenly, everywhere around him, he noticed naked bodies wrapped around each other; hot, sweaty flesh rubbing against him, pushing and pulling him with the flow of the human current. Elbowing his way through the constant stream of newcomers, he tried to find his way back and go around the plaza, but right then, the priestess of Sune called for everyone to find a partner and join her in prayer. Someone’s hand brushed against his chest, and a leg wedged itself between his thighs.

 

“Leaving so soon, boy?” a husky voice whispered right next to his ear, and a hot and clammy breath tickled his skin. He pushed away without looking at the person, then bumped into a well-built man wearing nothing more than a flower crown and a great crescent moon medallion. His dusky skin glistened with oils and exuded and aroma of many aphrodisiacs mixed together, so strong it nearly made Anqi gag. A well-toned arm pulled him into a tight embrace.

 

“Get off,” he grunted and pushed against the sticky body, the wound on his chest stinging at the effort, then froze, as he felt the man’s erection rubbing against his stomach. 

 

“Dance, little one! Praise the moon and be merry with me!” the man exclaimed, and the stench of wine wafting from his mouth did make Anqi‘s stomach turn. Finding what little room there was, he retched and let a mouthful of acidy fluid dribble on the ground. Some of it splashed on someone’s foot, but the person paid it no mind. The hold on him loosened, as a busty woman jumped into the pushy man’s embrace and started kissing him. When she climbed onto him further, his interest in Anqi disappeared, and he was free to squeeze through the crowd onwards, dodging persistent women and men who were either dressed in strips of silk or wore nothing at all with increasing difficulty. He was ready to brandish his Fury when someone almost ripped his bandana off, but a cold hand slipped onto his grip on his sword, stilling it. Suddenly, a path was open before him, the drunk and lust-addled people’s eyes glazing over as they pushed against the crowd around them to make room for Anqi. 

 

“Stay calm and walk,” a familiar, exotic voice ordered. Hexxat. 

 

They made it out of the plaza and into a slightly less crowded backstreet, where the vampire released him, then crossed her arms, as she looked him up and down. She herself was wearing a tight, black leather vest and knee-high travelling boots, with her usual golden neck-rings gleaming in the moonlight, entirely alluring as always.

 

“You look terrible,” she said, smirking, then added, “But at least you smell better.”

 

“Glad I don’t offend on all fronts, then,” he groused as he slumped against the wall. His chest ached like he was being pummelled with a club, but worse was the splitting headache that was causing him to see black spots. His stomach heaved again, but nothing but spit came out. Wiping his mouth on his forearm, he pushed himself up, only to be met with a concerned frown.

 

“Your eye. It’s not blood, but…” Hexxat trailed off. Anqi wiped his left cheek.

 

“Ah,” he muttered, rubbing the black pus from his fingers on his trousers. “I knew something was wrong.”

 

“Imoen said the druid had taken care of your head as well as the stab wound.”

 

“Imoen doesn’t know anything about this scar and neither does the quack who tried to fix it. I bet he used a bunch of weeds but missed the holy water, bloody tree hugger,” he spat, waving his hand dismissively—he’d fix it later. “Anyway, are you my babysitter? Did she ask you to tail me to make sure I don't stub my toe?”

 

“She didn’t need to—seeing how upset she was, I’ve decided to see the cause of it myself. I’d say her overreaction was warranted. You are quite the mess right now.”

 

“If you’re here to escort me back, then forget it. I need to find Dorn,” Anqi said and pushed himself off the wall, then headed north. Hexxat followed him two steps behind in grating silence. “I mean it. If you try to stop me…”

 

“I am here to observe. Seeing as you’ve halted the progress of our mission, there is little else for me to do, other than being tempted to pick out someone tasty from that obnoxious crowd back there.”

 

He tried hard not to smile at her deadpan tone. “Start with the dancing priestesses—they’re the rabble-rousers.”

 

“I certainly would, if I did go hunting during missions.”

 

That gave Anqi pause, just as the river of people flooded towards the plaza in the street perpendicular to their narrow path. Hexxat used her trick to clear the way again, and they crossed into another, even tighter alleyway. Forced to walk in single file, Anqi took point. “Do you actually work for the Shadow Thieves now?” he said over his shoulder.

 

“I know how far-fetched that sounds, considering their relatively-recent war with my kind, but I like to think of myself as a free agent. Aran Linvail values my ability to break into the distant vaults none of his thieves could ever reach, but it is not something I offer to do very often. With Imoen as my liaison, I can pick and choose the jobs I like, while keeping that smooth talker hungry for more.” 

 

“And let me guess: in return, you get to feed on those who upset the good guild master?”

 

“Crass,” she sighed, but there was a note of humour and warmth in it.

 

“It’s the company I keep, my dear,” he said lightly. “Speaking of, how’d you meet Imoen? She isn’t exactly your type, is she?”

 

The road widened and Hexxat overtook him, chuckling. “And what do you know of my tastes, hm? Perhaps your sister is everything I like in a girl.” 

 

“Half-sister,” he insisted.

 

“It was she who approached me, actually, in Copper Coronet, where you had left her to fend for herself.”

 

Anqi didn't like Hexxat's accusing tone. “I’d left her plenty of gold,” he protested.

 

“You'd left her alone in a strange and dangerous city,” she countered flatly. “Luckily, the tavern master had guided her to me, and I’d been happy to show her around. Weeks after that, she was still very worried about you, so I eventually led her to Aran from whom she learned more of your whereabouts. When she heard you’ve left Amn, she wanted to follow, but he convinced her to stay in the guild. That is how we came to work together, and how we came upon you and yours. As you may have guessed, her feelings about you have not changed, and, unfortunately, it seems she has appointed herself your protector.”

 

“A bloody busybody, that’s what she is. I don’t need protecting, especially when it means blasting my partner with bloody Dragon's Breath. The lunatic could’ve killed him.”

 

“He was killing you.”

 

“That doesn’t concern her. I just need to find Dorn and straighten things out between us. I don’t want you to be around for that, either, so if you’re done ‘observing’, I’d appreciate it if you went back to your girlie now.”

 

Hexxat turned abruptly, her pitch-black eyes gleaming with amusement. “She really wasn’t exaggerating—you are like a mad dog whenever someone mentions your beloved Butcher. And here I thought you were just showing off how brutish and mean-spirited you’ve become.”

 

“Oh, come off it,” he groaned.

 

“I wasn't criticising—you’re free to want whom you please, as is Imoen to hate whom she chooses.”

 

“And don’t you think that it being the same person complicates things?”

 

“Why, of course,” she stated plainly, smiling all the while. “But that’s what freedom is, isn’t it? Ugly. I intend to enjoy it to the fullest, seeing as it is one of the only things I’ve got left to amuse me in this life. You, however, have much to live for, but perhaps your priorities are in the wrong place.”

 

“How do you figure?” Anqi responded before he could stop himself. Humouring Hexxat had always been something he found entertaining, but this time he felt he wouldn’t like what she was going to say. She looked positively pleased, however.

 

“On one hand, there is your man, who, let’s not forget, punctured your heart in a fit of rage. On the other, you have a fugitive pirate and four well-trained thieves tasked to bring him in. One of those matters could be resolved quickly and easily, the other…” she looked at him with pity, and he didn’t need her to finish to know her opinion of his situation. “I think we both know what you should be doing instead of blindly wandering around this slum without the first clue of how to find your runaway Butcher.”

 

He bit back the reflexive snide remark and instead chose to shift his focus back to his search. They had already walked a long way from the plaza, where the houses were shabby and the streets stunk of waste and unwashed bodies. For a fleeting moment, he hoped Hexxat’s keen senses would find the place unbearable, but she followed without complaint. Soon they came upon three vagrants huddled together, and Anqi asked them in the few Turmic words he knew if they’d seen Dorn, but none of them, nor the next few people he questioned afterwards had heard or seen anything out of the ordinary. Half an hour of wandering around the filthy streets later, the smell had begun to get to him, and he had to stop several times to catch his breath. His chest pain continued to flare up with increasing intensity, and his head felt like it was about to implode. 

 

“Anqi, I smell blood,” Hexxat said when they entered another alleyway, but he could see no sign of bloodshed anywhere. “It’s coming from you.”

 

Feeling faint, he yanked his vest open to reveal a red splotch blooming on the linens. He turned to the vampire, who took a step back. “I hope you’re not hungry,” Anqi said wryly.

 

“I think I liked you better when you knew how to dodge knife wounds,” she answered, wrinkling her nose, then whistled. Two shadows descended from above. One of the hooded men offered his hand to Anqi. Hexxat nodded towards him. “I think your little trip is over for now. Let them take you back.”

 

Anqi recognized their outfits from the pier; Imoen's lackeys. “Forget it. I told you not to get involved,” he said and slapped the offered hand away. His knees wobbling, he made to walk off but slipped on something and fell, bracing himself on his arm. The sudden movement upset the tightness of his bandages, and he could feel the wound on his torso tearing open. He cried out and clutched at his chest. When the two men approached him, he did not chase them away again. 

 

“Don’t worry, they will take good care of you in my stead. Rheshid, in particular, has become your fan from listening to the gossip around the Guildhall,” Hexxat said. The taller of the thieves, presumably Rheshid, clicked his tongue.

 

“Mistress Hexxat, you promised not to tell,” he groused, sounding no older than twenty. Anqi could work with that.

 

“So you’ve heard of me, eh? Mind doing me a favour and telling Imoen to lay off?”

 

The thief looked to his companion anxiously, then to Hexxat. “You don’t have to answer that,” the vampire saved him with a chuckle, then slinked away into the shadows. Rheshid and the other thief helped him up to his feet and lent him their shoulders. He sighed with resignation and accepted the help. The two youths were as quiet escorting him as they had been when stalking and left him to stew over his failure in silence.

 

They made it back quicker than he expected, although Anqi was fairly sure he’d drifted off sometime during the trek. The whelps never mentioned it, however, not even to Imoen when she met them in front of the mansion. Hexxat had made a reappearance to whisper a few quick words to the girl, who then slunk back inside without a word, all the while glaring at him in judgement. He was glad for it.

 

As they stepped into the foyer, another servant appeared. The Mulan girl was older than the rest of Jazim's flock by a few years. Her black hair was tied in a knot behind her head, and she wore a much different outfit than her younger counterparts. For one, it covered most of her caramel-coloured skin, and, just like Jazim's tunics, the deep purple wrap-around dress was richly embroidered, the intricate flower patterns on her sleeves stunning in Karassar cream and gold. And unlike the others, she was allowed a piece of jewellery—a wide choker wrought in pale gold with a ruby the size of a pigeon's egg. When she approached Anqi and his escort, she bowed deeply and introduced herself in a subtle yet confident voice almost free of any foreign accent. "I am Ingwe, _Pasha_ Karassar's steward. Allow me to show you to your room, _rafayam_."

 

Anqi had no objections to that. Ingwe clapped her hands to summon another girl, the ginger-haired maid he had seen changing her clothes in the little cupboard, who seemed to spring out of nowhere, fleeting towards them in her purple silks. She bowed and motioned for them to follow. The thieves took a few steps, but Anqi dug in his heels. "Can you send Mia to my room?" he asked in what he thought was a polite tone, but from the way Ingwe's face twisted, he would've thought he'd just called her mother something unspeakable.

 

"He asked you a question," Hexxat purred. As if noticing the vampire for the first time, Ingwe flinched and stared at her wide-eyed. Although the difference in their height was minimal, Hexxat managed to look down on the steward as if she were Dorn's size. She flashed her teeth as she stepped up close, but the smile didn't reach her eyes. Ingwe cowered, but then caught herself and froze as if mulling over her next move. Shivering, she straightened her back and lifted her chin, and then looked Anqi straight in the eye.

 

"I have Mia performing other duties at the moment. She cannot come," she said with a stern face. "If you excuse me." She withdrew to a corridor with a bow and a flutter of her dress. Hexxat raised an eyebrow at Anqi, but he was too tired to make a big deal out of the unpleasant behaviour. They followed the ginger-haired girl, who could only say a few words in Common. When he asked her about Mia's whereabouts, he deduced from her tone she wasn’t going to help him more than the steward had. He wasn't going to pester her about that, although he stubbornly refused to go back to the red room, insisting they go to the one with the beautiful ornate bed, and, hopefully, the scent of his lover. The magnificent piece of furniture was still there, but all trace of Dorn had vanished save for his belongings, which were stacked at the foot of the bed. Among them was the Abyssal Blade, its menacing aura subdued inside the half-singed scabbard. Anqi dismissed the servant girl, then got rid of the thieves, who, despite their young age, were much more tactful and professional than their bratty leader, and Hexxat, who said she would keep an eye out in front of the estate in case Dorn returned. He couldn't decide whether the vampire was being helpful or simply interested in creating more drama for her to enjoy, but he thanked her nonetheless. A few minutes after she'd left, the ginger girl returned, bringing with her two more servants, one of whom was carrying medical supplies.

 

“ _Rafayam_ needs wound dressed?” the tall, dark-skinned beauty, Jholzi, asked in an accent he’d never encountered before, while her petite brown-haired friend began pouring fresh water from her jug into a basin. 

 

“Please,” he said and allowed the girls to unwrap his chest. They never flinched, not even when the smell of blood and burned flesh filled the air. The ginger girl, whose name he learned was Len, washed the gore away with a cool cloth, and Anqi was able to see the extent of the damage. Just below his left collarbone was a narrow but deep gash. From that spot extended a web of angry brown and pink burn marks in the shape of a star, which covered most of his chest and the upper edge of his belly, as well as the base of his neck. _Just like most things about you, Blood, your wrath sure is memorable_ , he thought, not quite certain if he was more impressed or upset. The girls waited respectfully for him to finish his self-examination, and he, in turn, did his best to follow their mostly mimed instructions, asking only that they don’t wrap the linens too tightly. He might have been weakened, but he at least wanted to move as freely as possible. He tried to ask about Mia once again, but none of them replied and only whispered between themselves in Turmic. He had a feeling they were unflattering remarks about him, but as frustrating it was to be ignored, their defiance only endeared them to him and made him realise they were not meek like Jazim seemed to want them. When they were done, he thanked them in their language and winked when the little brown-haired girl, Yashe, made a startled face. Before they cleaned up the bloody linens and the basin full of reddish-brown muck, he asked them if they could find him some holy water. Len frowned at his request, and he did his best to explain what it was with hand gestures, but she caught onto it quickly. "Atta girl", he said as he beamed at her, and he was glad to see her smile back. After that, he let them go and reclined on the bed.

 

His body feeling less cumbersome than before but still just as weak, he knew he needed to rest and recuperate, but his head scar was causing him enough distress to make sleep impossible. That and the stink of vanilla coming from the pillow, which he ended up chucking across the room and propping his head on his arm. Dorn had their medicine pack with him so he would have to suffer through the pain until the maids brought him some holy water, but at least he was glad his partner would have something to treat the burns Imoen may have inflicted upon him.

 

Restless but too tired to do anything about it, he stared dully at the shiny beaks of parrots and eyes of the metal monkeys in the canopy, flickering in the glow of the fire in the brazier near the window. His thoughts drifted listlessly as well, from his failure to satisfy Dorn’s expectations, inadvertently impressing Cyric, to Hexxat’s words of wisdom, chastising him for acting like a rash simpleton, when between blinks he noticed a shadow appear behind the curtains.

 

Lurching forward, he reached for his sword, only to remember the girls had piled his belts on the chair by the door. The sudden movement caused his chest to sting again.

 

“Don’t be alarmed,” came a husky, heavily accented whisper muffled by a mask, as the shadow raised his empty hands. “I come in peace.”

 

“Then you should’ve used the door,” Anqi grumbled; he was getting fed up with this night’s visits.

 

“Doors are inconvenient for those who are unwelcome, and we needed to speak with you without alarming Karassar’s people.” 

 

_We?_ The half-elf was about to ask who the other person was when a second figure made itself known. Before he joined his brother, the other drow had been standing so still he had been impossible to spot. _Impressive, no wonder they sneaked up on me so easily_ , Anqi thought with a sense of dread and once again wished he had his Fury on him. Masking his unease with a cocky wave, he said, "Fine. Let us talk then, perhaps face to face?”

 

Both drows slipped into the room. Erthas removed his sleeping man’s mask and shrugged off his hood. Durzen remained as he was. Anqi had to admit the four eye slits of his mask were intimidating, and paired with his large build, at least as far as dark elves were concerned, it was likely he was the more dangerous of the two. “Before we begin, I want you to know I never show my face if I wish to hurt or kill someone, so you may rest easy.”

 

“And your brother?”

 

“Durzen does as I bid, and I will not bid him harm you either,” Erthas said simply, brushing his fingers through his short, thick hair. In the glow of the brazier it looked golden, but when the drow approached the end of Anqi’s bed, the half-elf realised it was indeed coloured that way. He got the sense that everything from the hair, the hatred of his language and spiders, as well as the way he was dressed—silver and purple vest and shirt, paired with striped black and burgundy trousers, purple leather gloves and mantle, and red, pointed boots—was all a way to distance himself from his heritage. His brother wore similar attire but preferred blue to purple, but Anqi guessed his choice to wear the mask had more to do with the rare colour of his eyes and his facial scars, and he sympathised.

 

“Go on then, say what you came to say,” Anqi said as he sat up, then threw his legs off the bed with a heave. He crossed the room to get his scabbards off the chair, which Erthas didn’t seem to mind in the least and merely watched Anqi with his hands folded behind his back.

 

“The girl, Mia. You care for her,” the drow stated. 

 

Taken by surprise, Anqi needed a moment to gather his wits. “Those are not the first words I expected from a…” _A drow._ “A smuggler. You’re not known for caring about children, or anything that won’t profit you.”

 

Erthas’ red eyes narrowed. “Consider me atypical, just like you are for attempting to reunite with your own killer.”

 

Anqi clicked his tongue at the jab, but let it slide otherwise. _Fine, we’re even._ “So, you’ve been spying on me. Why?”

 

“We were minding our business, hauling Karassar’s spices from Mulhorand to Sembia, doing good and honest work, when suddenly we’re summoned here and told we are to do a special job for an unknown adventurer from the west. Someone like that receiving the young master’s patronage—you understand it raises suspicion.” Anqi gave a curt nod as he fastened his weapon belts. He no longer thought the drows wished to harm him, but the weight of his swords grounded him. Erthas continued. “After our first meeting, we assumed you and your comrade were nothing but new playthings Karassar had found, but the way the half-orc defied him, and how you’re showing concern for one of his servants—let’s say that’s given us enough cause to reconsider.”

 

“If that’s all it takes to impress you, then you really must have something against your boss,” Anqi probed lightly, wondering why the drow was telling him this. Was he testing a possible ally, or was there another, nefarious reason?

 

A muffled growl came from Durzen, but his brother paid him no mind. “When Karassar told you we had been charged with slave trading, he did not say why that accusation had been so easy for the paladins to believe, the colour of our skin notwithstanding.” Something in his voice changed, his consonants sounded harsher and more Drowic than before. “It was not slaves we were smuggling back then but their children, together with those who’d won their freedom in gladiatorial battles or had managed to escape their owners. There was no real profit in transporting them to the western lands; they had nothing but the rags on their backs to their name, but knowing they could have a chance to live free was enough. That Brigov”—Erthas wrinkled his nose at the Rashemi’s name—“He acts like he’s never met us, but ten years ago a well-known Thayan arena fighter arranged his passage on our ship along with some others. She'd paid us a handsome amount of gold, which is why I remember her. Tanar’ri, they called her in the pits, because she fought like a demon. The tattoo Brigov wears is a mark of a blood debt he owes her. It was a surprise to see him return to the Sea of the Fallen Stars, and working for another generous benefactor. A word of advice: freed slaves are often loyal to their saviours so do not trust that man. He is deep in Karassar’s pocket.”

 

Anqi was trying to process the idea that the two drows, born into a society built on subduing their lessers, used to helped enslaved children. It sounded almost too far-fetched. _You are the prophesied spawn of the God of Murder_ , he reminded himself wryly, but he had to be vigilant. “A touching story, truly, but it doesn’t explain why you seem so hostile towards Jazim. He had given you the same chance you used to give the slaves, had he not?”

 

Durzen growled again, and this time reached for his weapon, advancing towards Anqi several steps before Erthas signed for him to stop. Anqi didn’t react beyond resting his hand on the Fury’s hilt. “From where you’re standing, it does look like we are in the wrong, but we know what it is to live as prisoners—it had been our life for over thirty years before we first tasted the freedom of the Surface nearly eighty years ago. Karassar may have released us from our wrongful imprisonment, that is true, but his debt is just as binding as the chains we used to wear. We don’t intend to remain thusly forever. And I believe you may be able to help us.”

 

“I assume you can’t just up and quit; Jazim does seem like the kind of guy who’d take personal offence.”

 

“Indeed,” Erthas said, his voice softer once again. “That is why you must agree to take him with you on your ship, far from his household and the city. The sea can be a treacherous place. Men fall overboard all the time, especially those green boys who think a deck is their playground.”

 

Anqi blinked, momentarily confused whether the drow was talking about him or Jazim. There was no hint of mockery in Erthas’ eyes, however, just pure determination. It was upsetting how similar they were to Dorn’s. _Always knowing what he wanted and demanding the impossible_ , he thought, but that was what his partner had said of him many times. _I suppose we both asked too much of one another_. Anqi left that bitter conclusion for another time and turned his attention back to the drow. “What makes you think I won’t go to Jazim with this information?”

 

“You care for the girl, he does not,” Erthas said simply. “He replaces them every couple years, you know. Most older girls will be lucky to become servants in other noble houses. Those that are not, end up in whorehouses or on the street. His boys too. They are all disposable to him and your Mia won’t be the last one.”

 

His mouth dry, Anqi took in the drow’s tense posture and could tell the man wasn’t telling him everything, but he also knew he wasn’t lying. “And you want to be the one to stop him? Why?”

 

“It’s something I need to do,” was all Erthas said as he glanced towards his brother and smiled, but it felt heavy. “So, this is what we need from you, adventurer. Now it's your turn to name your price.”

 

There was something genuine about the drow, a bluntness that made Anqi want to trust him that reminded him of Viconia. Her words were often harsh but always rang true, unlike the other members of her race he'd encountered. Erthas was offering an exchange, and there was only one thing Anqi wanted. But would the brothers prove reliable enough to deliver? _With me this weak, and no time to waste, what have I got to lose?_ “If you want Jazim on my ship, I will only make happen once my partner is found. Do it, and then we’ll discuss our seafaring accident,” he said and extended his hand.

 

“You wish the half-orc dead?” the drow asked with a grimace. His brother snorted and signed something too quickly for Anqi to catch. “We are not assassins for hire.” 

 

Anqi groaned inwardly. “I don’t want you to kill Dorn, I want you to find him, and if he is agreeable, bring him back. If not, then just point me to him, and I will do the rest. That is my price.” 

 

After a moment’s consideration, Erthas shook his hand. Anqi extended it to Durzen too, but the taller brother kept his distance and merely nodded. “We will talk more after we find your half-orc, but know just this: once our goal is achieved, Alaghôn won't be a safe place to return to. The Karassar family has a lot of influence and they may send people after us if we are not careful,” the drow said as he replaced his mask.

 

_Won’t be the first time a whole city's after me_ , Anqi thought, resigned, but then remembered Mia's bruised face, and his heart was set. “Leave the merchant to me. Jazim’s not the only one with a powerful family,” he said, then headed out to attempt to reconcile with his own.

 


	6. The Marauder's Rekindled Menace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The little, remote temple of Lathander was a place of silent meditation and healing. 
> 
> Or that's what Reth Lightsky had meant it to be...

 

Pain crept into his drifting mind like a fire spreading across barren fields, and its biting intensity drove him into the harsh clutches of consciousness and the memory he had not recalled in nearly five years.

 

The last few days of his imprisonment in Luskan was a time of bone-chilling cold and starvation; cruel attempts of his jailers to break his spirit. They had almost succeeded it too—there were days when he thought the pain and the cold would simply drive him mad. But back then, he had not yet known or even imagined the overwhelming and addictive power he would soon receive from Ur-Gothoz. Back then, he was weak and powerless to oppose his enemies.

 

He wasn’t weak or powerless anymore.

 

And yet that didn’t save him from almost dying.

 

Dorn pushed the vexing thought away as he forced his eyes to open—he needed no more bitter reminders of his mortal limitations and the might he had given up. What he did need was to assess his situation. That, and a drink.

 

The first thing he noted about his surroundings was that it was dark. The second—that it was somewhere indoors. Blinking to allow his vision to adjust, he examined the room carefully. To the right of the shabby bed he was occupying, he saw a wooden door and a tiny square window just next to it. Between that wall and the bed was nestled a tiny bedside table. Whoever had brought him here had placed a jug on top of it. Dorn licked his parched lips and attempted to sit up, but his body felt like a pile of rocks. Gritting his teeth, he reached for the hopefully full flagon, then hissed at the sharp pain in his mouth. He felt around the sore, vacant spot with his tongue and recalled the horse’s hoof that knocked out his tooth, but this memory he too dismissed in disgust, determined to focus on the task at hand. Rolling onto his side and extending his left arm was impossible—the wound from one of the bolts in his shoulder was preventing almost all movement, so he had to use his right. The linens tightly wrapped around his torso were severely limiting his remaining manoeuvrability, but despite being stiff from the pain and bandages, he managed to grab a hold of the jug. He lifted it with care, only for the muscles in his arm to revolt and spasm. A twitch of the wrist and the flagon slipped from his numb fingers and fell to the floor, smashing completely and splashing him with the cold water he so craved. He regarded his clumsy hand with disgust and then noticed the tangle of bright scars peeking from underneath the bandage around his wrist. He cursed the newly acquired memento under his breath. But this was not the time to dwell on the shame of being overcome by the Celestial Fury’s enchantment no matter how much the disgrace of being disarmed infuriated him—someone was approaching the door. A light flashed in the window, followed by a jangle of keys and the grinding of a rusted lock. He couldn’t do much besides tightening his fists and bracing himself for whoever was about to come through the door; if they meant him harm, no matter his sorry state, he would not just lie there and allow it to happen.

 

But the person who entered the room was far from what he expected. Wearing heavy robes of yellow and white, the stranger was an older, pale-faced man. Tall and broad in the shoulders, he held himself upright, and in a square hand that rivalled Dorn's in size, he was clutching a tall wooden staff. He exuded an aura of strength, but Dorn couldn’t detect any signs of hostility from the man at all. The stranger raised a metal lantern he carried, and hung it on the hook right beneath the ceiling, lighting up the tiny quarters. His blue eyes met Dorn’s dark gaze, and the man offered him a warm smile.

 

“Can’t say I didn’t expect any racket to come from a burly man like you, but I thought it would take another day or two before you started moving about," he said, his voice deep and cheerful. Dorn distrusted the man's jovial veneer much more than he did the mace that was half-concealed in the folds of his robes. "You’re even sturdier than I imagined, friend, and I was already impressed by your stubborn refusal to die from the blood loss. Any other normal man would have surely perished.”

 

“Where am I?” Dorn asked sharply. He attempted to sit up once again, but only managed to lift himself up on his elbows before his body protested. “What have you done to me?”

 

The stranger blinked, as if incapable of understanding his speech, but then began to chuckle. He fetched a tiny stool from the foot of the bed and placed it beside the door, then sat across from Dorn, his massive robes spilling around him, engulfing his lower half like a mustard jelly’s amorphous body. “I know waking up sore and in an unknown place is never a pleasant experience, but surely you must have realised that I'd saved you. You are most welcome, by the by.”

 

“Saved me?” Dorn frowned, trying to recall the last moments of consciousness before he’d passed out. He remembered bolts being fired at his enemies, and someone lifting one of the bodies off of him. “ _You_ killed the bandits?” he wondered out loud.

 

The stranger's booming laugh echoed off the bare walls. “You don’t need to sound so incredulous. I used to be quite the shot with a crossbow,” he said with a cocksure smile, which disappeared almost as soon as he finished bragging. “I… no. I just notified the guards. They handled the bloodshed, while I attended to your wounds. After they had rounded up two stragglers, they wanted to grab you as well for taking part in the fight. Going anywhere in your state would have killed you, so I stepped in and told them you were one of the vagrants I was feeding whom the bandits attacked unprovoked. Your tattered clothes helped me sell the tale, so they let me keep you with me. A few healing spells later and you were good enough to bring home.”

 

“I did not ask for the whole bloody tale,” Dorn snapped. He hated the idea of being indebted to a stranger almost as much as the fact that the ache all over his body rendered him practically helpless. “Just tell me where I am, old man. Be precise.”

 

“Old!?” the stranger scoffed, but the smile returned to his heavyset features. He rubbed his thick fingers over the square jaw and through the black and white bristle that sprouted thickly from his jowls. “I know I've got a few grey hairs here and there but I’m hardly elderly. You yourself are sporting quite a number of whites, so I don’t think you should be so eager to call the kettle black.” Dorn remained unmoved by the jest, his grimace only deepening. The stranger sighed. “Not one for humour, are you? To each their own, I suppose. Let me answer your question then, Lord Frown. You are just outside Jathrin’s Jump, a few hours ride south of Alaghôn. This”—he swept his arm around the tiny room—”is my humble abode, a small temple of Lathander, in which you are very welcome to remain until you’ve regained your strength. My name is Reth Lightsky. What should I call you?”

 

“It makes no difference—I’ll be gone as soon as I can walk,” Dorn muttered, looking Reth up and down again. Being in close proximity to priests, especially those serving sanctimonious gods like the Morninglord, tended to turn ugly as soon as they discovered his character and occupation. And without the thief to serve the cleric half-truths, the jolly fool would most likely figure them out soon, since Dorn had little energy and patience to keep up with charades on his own. Grunting, he threw off the scratchy covers and was pleased to see he still had his trousers on, although the right leg had been cut off at the groin to allow more bandages to be wrapped around the spear wound. Bracing his weight against the wall, he managed to stand up. His leg muscles shuddered beneath the linens and his head swam from the motion, but he willed himself to remain upright. Reth was on him in an instant, trying to usher him back to the bed.

 

“Oh, no, dear fellow. You can barely stand, let alone go anywhere,” he protested. Dorn pushed him away, although it had the effect similar to that of a child’s play-shove. Resentful of his frailty, he bared his teeth.

 

“Touch me like that again and my gratitude for your aid will quickly change into anger.”

 

Reth raised his bushy brows. “That’s the first I've heard of you being grateful since you haven’t even bothered to thank me yet, but I’ll take what I can, I suppose. I won’t lay another finger on you if you wish it, but your bandages will need changing. Do you think you could manage that on your own?”

 

“Don’t test me, old man,” Dorn snapped again, frustrated with the fatigue spreading through his limbs from just a minute of effort. _Pathetic_ , he thought, furious, as he clenched his fists and willed the pain to disappear. “I have unfinished business to attend to and I've no time to waste on inane chatter.”

 

“I know I’m hardly the most entertaining of hosts, but with how sadly limited my healing skills are, only two days of recuperating is not enough.”

 

“Two days!?” Dorn gasped, eyes widening. _Anqi could already be…!_ His jaw clenched and brow furrowed, he pushed himself off the wall. “Out of the way! I must—!” His knees gave out on the second step and he tumbled to the floor. The fall knocked the wind out of him and he felt something tear, and the smell of fresh blood filled his nostrils. Reth's big hands were on him once again, but he had no strength left to shake him off.

 

“I hope this proves you are in no way ready to stroll around, not to mention to settle whatever ‘unfinished business’ you have in mind. No matter how important, it will need to wait at least until tomorrow, unless you’re planning to deal with it from beyond the grave.” Reth chuckled and lifted Dorn off the floor with a measure of ease the half-orc would not have suspected of a human priest, and placed him back on the bed. It shuddered and creaked under his weight, the sheets soaking up the blood that was seeping from his leg wound. He also felt a stinging on his back and a warm trickle running down his spine. His host produced a clean cloth from the folds of his robe and pressed it over his leg. Dorn hissed and tried to swipe at the man, but Reth avoided the slow swat with ease. “Now, now. Let’s have none of that,” Reth said and chanted a spell. A shiver went through the half-orc’s body, and he noted with alarm that he couldn't move at all.

 

“You dare to paralyze me?” he said through clenched teeth, every syllable a struggle. “You’ll pay for that.”

 

“It’s for your own good, friend. Now let me find a thread and needle—I’ll stitch you up the way I used to in the old days,” Reth announced and continued to apply pressure to his wound with one hand while he dug through his deep pockets with the other. The numbing sensation in Dorn’s limbs lessened only after a few seconds, which was unexpected but not unwelcome.

 

_His skills really are dreadful_ , he thought, then shook off the paralysis entirely and shoved the man with all his might.

 

“What—!?”

 

“This will teach you to bind me, old fool,” Dorn growled, but before he could decide what to do next, a gasp came from the door followed by a tiny blur launching itself at his chest.

 

“Leave my uncle alone!” the diminutive assailant shrieked and unleashed a flurry of furious kicks and punches. The unexpected attack managed to phase Dorn for a moment before he regained his composure and swatted the irritating gnat to the floor.

 

“What’s the meaning of this?” he barked at Reth, who rushed towards the moaning child, a horrified look on his face. The cleric ignored Dorn and scooped the small body off the floor.

 

“Juniper! I thought I told you to go home already. Polie, you get in here too,” he said, turning his head to the window, where a small, round face had been squished against the thick, dirty glass.

 

“But he was going to hurt you,” the brat in the cleric's arms squeaked in protest. From the pitch of her voice, Dorn guessed it was a girl. Reth set her down by the door next to the other child. The chubby boy stared at his feet in silence, while his scrappy friend glared daggers at Dorn.

 

The cleric sighed. “Juniper, your father asked me not to keep you here after dusk, and you promised to go home on time. You’ve broken that promise.” The girl flinched at the harsh and cold tone of the man’s voice.

 

_Maybe there is something to this feeble priest, after all_ , Dorn thought as he leaned his back against the wall. Most of the girl’s haphazard hits missed all of his vital spots but for one kick she happened to aim at his injured side. When he pressed his hand over the bandage there, his fingers came away red. Perhaps he would need to remain in this godsforsaken temple a little while longer after all. He turned his attention back to the cleric, who was still in the middle of scolding the children.

 

“...and if I can’t borrow the carriage, then I can’t bring the food to the poor. Is that what you want, Juniper? To have people starve because you wanted to disobey your father?”

 

The girl shook her head vehemently. Reth’s severe expression lessened and he put his large hand over the tangle of her mud-coloured hair. She bit her lip and rubbed her eyes before hugging his leg and mumbling apologies. The boy started to wail as well.

 

_Is this some sort of cruel jest?_ Dorn wondered, regarding the scene with dismay. _Some Hell I’ve never heard of?_

 

“Now, now. No need for that. Just head home and I will have a talk with your father first thing in the morning. You too, Polie. I’m sure your grandmother is worried about you,” Reth said, brushing the boy’s hair as well, then ushered the children out. “And remember what I've asked of you earlier: not a word about my new guest to anyone, alright? He needs peace and quiet to rest.”

 

“We won’t tell, I promise,” the girl assured the cleric, then grabbed the boy by the hand and ran off. Reth watched them go for another moment before he closed the door.

 

Dorn scoffed. “She's already failed you once. Only a fool would trust the word of a lying brat.”

 

Reth sent him an irritated glance. Dorn was expecting to hear some sort of sermon about goodness towards the innocents, or some other nonsense priests always loved to spout, but instead, the cleric took a deep breath and smiled as if he’d heard none of Dorn’s criticisms and the commotion had not taken place. “She can be a bit impetuous, and for that I am sorry, but she’s a good kid. She helps around the temple every day and she knows I want to keep you safe until you’ve regained your strength.”

 

“Safe? What a joke. I don’t need to be safe. I need to be well enough to return to..." Dorn hesitated, then shook his head. "To be well enough to go. Cast whatever spells you can, priest, and I’ll leave you and your flock as soon as possible.”

 

“I’m afraid that’s all the blessings I’m able to channel for the moment, but I can do something about the wounds you’ve reopened. That is if you allow me to lay my hands on you. I promise I won’t try to bind you again,” Reth chuckled. Dorn imagined strangling him.

 

_Not yet_ , he could hear the thief whispering in his ear, and imagine a wise-guy smirk plastered on his face. _No point wasting assistance willingly given. You can always discard him after he's done being useful._ Dorn considered the tip the thief had once oh-so graciously shared with him, then grunted his assent. They sat in silence, as the cleric worked stitching and rebandaging the wounds. He turned out to be very good at it, as opposed to his lacking spellcasting skills. When he was done, he produced a skin from the folds of his robe and handed it to Dorn.

 

“It’s water. You look parched.”

 

“What gave you that impression?” the half-orc grunted and snatched the skin, guzzled half of its contents, then tossed it on the bedside table. In the meantime, Reth got up and picked up the staff he’d dropped before. It was clear he didn’t need it to walk and he already had a weapon—the mace—which he could’ve used to subdue Dorn, but had chosen not to. _Something didn’t add up_ , Dorn's senses told him.

 

_Just play along until you know for sure. Why squander his hospitality out of paranoia? If he does try something you can always kill him then, right?_

 

That would have been the thief's advice, and despite Dorn's growing annoyance at these recollections creeping up on him, it was sound.

 

“Rest now, friend, and may Lathander shine his light upon you,” Reth said and unhooked the lantern from the ceiling.

 

“Save your blessing for someone who needs it, priest,” Dorn muttered as he placed the feather-stuffed pillow behind his back—he wasn’t going to be lying down and thus render himself vulnerable in a stranger’s home, no matter how benevolent he seemed.

 

Reth paused at the door, the lamp swaying in his hand, and gave him a lingering look. “You might need it more than you realise. I used to be hot-headed like you, eager to throw myself at each new challenge with zeal and fury. I’ve lost everything I ever held dear that way." He looked around the tiny room with a pained expression. "My wife had been waiting for me here while I was off chasing after fortune and glory in foreign countries, pretending I was achieving something. I had hoped to return to her but kept putting it off, believing we would have all the time in the world to grow old together once I had secured our future. In the end, I couldn’t even be with her in her final days…” He closed his eyes and smiled, although he looked like he wanted to weep. “Only after I found Lathander, did I begin to heal. It’s not too late for you too, friend. Whoever it is you’re trying to return to will surely wish to see your restless heart find peace.”

 

“How could you possibly know anything about me, you bootlicker of gods? You would do well to keep your assumptions to yourself before you say something you will regret,” Dorn growled. Reth chuckled wistfully and fished something out of his pocket, then set it on the nightstand. Dorn's face fell. “Why do you have that?”

 

“It was in your pouch—do forgive me for going through it—and it looked out of place. I figured it must have been a memento, something you cherished.”

 

Dorn snatched the black, bird-shaped pin and threw it at the opposite wall. It bounced off and skidded under the bed. “That’s what I think about it! And you too, for that matter, so leave me be.”

 

The priest watched his heated display with bemusement but had the good sense to remove himself from his presence without another word, leaving the fuming half-orc in the dark and among equally dark thoughts.

 

_When had that insolent thief snuck the trinket into my belongings? Is this how he means to repay me for years of tolerating his incompetence? With mockery!?_

 

It would not stand, he decided. No one, not even that self-assured, tongue-wagging cheat was allowed to treat him that way over and over. Death wasn't going to be punishment enough for the wretched cur, not after his insolent betrayal. If only the witch hadn't interrupted him, he would have resurrected the half-elf and then...

 

Anqi's contrite expression as he died flashed in front of Dorn's eyes.

 

No, that meant nothing to him. The thief's demise was a pitiful affair, even though he did manage to snag him one last time. Dorn brushed his thumb over the burn marks left by the Fury's lightning spark, trying not to remember the thief's words.

 

_‘Because I love you!’_

 

“...And yet your blade found my back so easily,” he whispered to the darkness around him. It did not give him an explanation as to why the thief had felt the need to do such a thing, or how he, Dorn Il-Khan, had allowed it to happen. Unable to find a satisfactory answer, he hung his head and watched the inky blackness outside the window and slowly drifted off to a fitful sleep. Each time he awoke from his restless vigil, the sky had grown brighter until the first sun rays pierced his heavy eyelids and heralded the end of his respite.

 

Shifting his body was still a terrible strain, and by the time he climbed to his feet, he had built up a sweat. After draining the rest of the water from the skin, he took a tentative step forward and then grunted in pain. Something had pricked his naked foot. He glowered at the floor and found the bird pin shining in the sunlight.

 

_If I had my boots, I’d crush this and all the other of the blasted trinkets_ , he thought with venom. Fighting against the stiff linens around his midsection, he picked up the offending item and imagined the pain on the thief's face when Dorn destroyed it right in front of him. He would then let the shards slip between his fingers and fall into the dirt, exactly like the thief had done with his trust. Liking the idea, he slipped the pin into his trousers. Years ago, the flap-jawed tiefling bard in the thief's group had called him a grand vulture, but Dorn had never allowed the nickname to stick. _To think he'd remember that_ , Dorn reflected. Typical of the fool, paying attention to all the most trivial of matters. Aliases, magical trinkets, ships—all of it was pointless. Then he recalled the twinkling in the thief's eye when he spoke of the sea, and Dorn could feel the rage grow within him by the second. That’s what mattered to the thief all along, not power he’d so readily discarded, nor blood or glory, and not even Dorn’s own ambitions. No, he didn't care and instead had used his devotion to exploit him.

 

_Could I truly have been such a fool for love to have not one but two companions betray me so utterly?_

 

No, he refused to believe that. Perhaps it was the promise of power blinding him that he'd missed the rot spreading right under his nose.

 

_Whatever it was, I will never be used like that again_ , he swore and hobbled to the door.

 

The early morning sun prickled his moist skin softly, but its glare was enough to make him recoil. He limped to the shadow just around the corner of the tiny extension he had been cooped up in and took in the state of the meagre countryside chapel. The shabby building left a lot to be desired, with the bricks crumbling and in need of replacing, and the thatch roof requiring patching in a few spots. He wondered if the cleric had ever tried to fix his abode, but perhaps he was as unskilled with a hammer as he clearly was with his god's blessings. Following the shaded wall, Dorn made his way to the rear of the building where he found a fenced off hatchery, a tiny pen with two goats nibbling the grass, and a small apple orchard. Chickens ambling around the dirt path clucked indifferently at his arrival. A cock flapped his way up onto the well and ruffled his feathers in alarm when Dorn came too close for his liking. The half-orc ignored the bird and scanned the horizon beyond the orchard. There were no other buildings in sight, just empty green and yellow hills to the west and to the south, cliffs that grew into a majestic mountain range that stretched far to the south-west. _He is waiting for me the opposite way_ , an impatient voice reminded him, but he dismissed it. There were footsteps approaching from the other side of the chapel. Judging from the light step, he guessed it was one of the children, but he steeled himself for an attack just in case.

 

“Hey, everyone, time for breakfast,” the priest’s feisty ward called out to the animals from behind the corner, then yelped when she saw him. Both her gnarled walking stick and the bag of feed she was carrying fell to the ground beside her. The chickens and the goats flocked towards the spilt seed and she scrambled to shoo them away with her bare, dirty feet. “Get off, you stupids,” she groused. Dorn relaxed his stance and leaned against the cool wall. Despite the early hour, it was already starting to get hot, and along with the pain in his leg, it was likely he was running a fever. “Are you crazy? What are you doing up at this hour? My uncle told you to rest.” The girl rounded up on him, glaring at him with a pair of bright brown eyes.

 

“Your uncle’s words mean little to me, as do yours, so make sure to choose them with care, child.”

 

She scrunched her face and put her hands on her hips, ready to scold him like a mother her whelp. “I’m not a child. My name is Juniper and if you think being mean will scare me, then you got another thing coming. I'm used to it.”

 

He did not doubt her boast—he could bet her cockiness had earned her many a scowl from the peasants around, as it was extremely grating. Too much like _him_. “Gnats like you are of no interest to me. I need to speak to the priest about my healing and to recover my equipment. Afterwards, I’ll be gone, so you best point me his way and mind your own chores.”

 

“He’s busy with his morning prayer.” Dorn would have accepted that answer as sufficient interaction with the child, but she held out a quarter-pint-sized clay flask that was hanging from a string over her shoulder. “Here, I made it yesterday but didn't get to give it to you.”

 

He regarded the offering with indifference. “I’ve no habit of accepting suspicious items from strange children.”

 

“Suspicious!?” Juniper cried, her cheeks darkening in outrage. “It’s medicine! Willow bark and ginger for fever and aches, like my _nona_ taught me. You best apologise and thank me for even bothering to bring it to you.”

 

There was no denying the girl at least had spirit, if not a well-functioning sense of preservation. Dorn took the jug. “Have you gone through my belongings to make this?”

 

“I’m no thief! I grow herbs in my own garden at home," she said and crossed her arms. "If you’re so against it, you don’t have to drink it.”

 

He scoffed, being reminded of the many times he had to force a whining Anqi to swallow his herbal brews, then winced and banished the smile that was threatening to form on his face. He needed to get out of this backcountry as soon as possible and finish what he had begun before his thoughts, too, would end up betraying him. He uncorked the flask and sniffed at the medicine. If he had his bag, he would have made a similar mixture to what the girl had prepared, so after determining the aroma fit the ingredients, he took a small swig. Then he spat it out instantly. “What vile thing have you added? This is revolting,” he growled and threw the flask away with disgust.

 

She ran to the patch of grass where it had fallen to reclaim it. “That’s so rude! I added a little bit of blackberry juice to help with the taste.”

 

“Your ' _nona_ ' forgot to tell you, then, that those of orc descent detest anything sweet like that, although I doubt she had even bothered to learn the difference. Typical of an ignorant human, trying to push your disgusting inclinations on others. Now, get out of my sight and fetch the pathetic priest so I can finally leave this wretched place.”

 

The girl’s face grew crimson. “You’re just like my dad, saying horrible things about my uncle! He saved you! How can you be so mean to him and his home like that?" She knitted her thin brows in an attempt to look scornful. "He probably didn't tell you, because he doesn't brag like everyone around here, but he used to be in the army. That's right, he could’ve put you in your place last night if he wanted to! He didn't only because Lathander says not to, but if it were me, I would’ve beat you up good!”

 

Dorn raised a brow—so the priest did know how to use the mace he refused to draw against him. “Try it then. Defend your pious uncle’s honour, if you think I’ve slighted him so.”

 

The girl stiffened, then recovered without missing a beat. She put away the flask and picked up her walking stick with both hands. It was obvious from her clumsy stance she had no idea about proper fighting. “Don’t think I’ll take pity on you just because you’re injured,” she said and, never waiting for his response, jabbed the stick at his stomach. Dorn snatched it with ease and tore it out of her hands like one would pluck a flower, then swiped it at her legs. She fell on her back with a pained yelp and before she could even begin to recover after the shock from the impact, he pinned her down by pressing the end of the stick to her shoulder.

 

“Don’t think I’ll take pity on you just because you’re a defenceless child,” he echoed and watched with a modicum of satisfaction as her self-righteous snarl gave way to terror. He flung the stick far away and turned to follow the wall around the chapel, leaving Juniper behind.

 

That was senseless, he thought after a moment, but his frustration had got the better of him. Anything that stood between him and returning to Alaghôn would perish, and the girl got off lucky. His step faltering a little from the exhaustion, he reached the front of the chapel from where he could see the town of Jathrin’s Jump. Its meagre entirety was nestled between the chapel hill and its twin to the east, and there were more farmhouses peppered towards the north. He followed their trail to finally find the shape of the gaudy-walled capital in the far distance where his quarry awaited. _Enjoy the last moments of the life you’ve chosen over me. Soon they will be over_ , he promised, then faced the house of Lathander.

 

The once respectable double-winged doors that used to depict some religious ceremony, were now a weathered atrocity so decayed that it would have been better to set them afire than attempt to refurbish them. Through the large cracks in the wood, Dorn could see the gloomy interior of the chapel, which was just as shabby as the outside. In the middle of the nave illuminated by the rays of sun falling in through the holes in the roof, he spotted the priest prostrating himself by the altar. He was about to enter when something smacked him on the right shin. The impact sent a jolt up his leg and caused his knee to twitch and his thigh to feel the pain tenfold. He glared behind to see what had attacked him and found the dirty brat clutching her infernal stick once again. “Are you asking for death, you insolent whelp?” he growled.

 

“You’re not supposed to interrupt my uncle’s prayer! And if you think you can hurt me again, then first you have to catch me. I’m quicker than even the oldest boys in the village, and you can barely walk.” The terror from before was gone from her features, replaced by a confidence that seemed to sprout out of nowhere. Dorn had seen it before, this daredevil attitude of naive fools who thought that a lucky escape from a life-threatening situation was proof enough of their invincibility. He had been glad to disprove such beliefs many a time. This child was younger than his usual prey—twelve, fourteen at best—but before his eleventh spring, he had already witnessed fearsome ogres three times his size pulverise the skulls of orcs as young as four years old and even faced and killed one of them during his training. If she was ready to raise a weapon, then she should be ready to receive a beating in turn. And he was ready to oblige.

 

He forced his mind off the pain in his leg and turned away from the door, intent on surprising the brat with a lunge, when he noticed a horse cart climbing the hill. A lanky, brown-skinned man was snapping at the reins. Beside him sat the boy from last night held by the driver by the scruff of his neck. “Rats!” the girl gasped. “Please, don’t let him get me,” she begged, then darted back the way she came before Dorn could use her momentary distraction to catch her.

 

“Don’t you dare run away from me, Juniper!” the stranger barked spotting her, then spurred the horse to a canter for the final bit of the climb. He halted in a cloud of dust and jumped off, dragging the fat boy behind in an attempt to follow the girl around the chapel, but gave up when he saw she had already disappeared far into the apple orchard. “You’re only gonna make your punishment worse! Now, it’ll be twenty lashes when you come back home!” he bellowed after her, before finally taking note of Dorn. He looked him up and down with the typical expression of a human spotting a half-orc and immediately judging him as inferior to himself. “And what in Lathander’s name are you supposed to be? Wait, don’t tell me, another of my bloody good-brother’s little, lost lambs, I bet. Ha! Well, this time it seems he’s picked himself up a big and ugly wolf instead.”

 

An insubordinate child or a loose-lipped peasant; it mattered not for Dorn’s bloodlust. He advanced on the man, whose smug expression transformed into a mask of fear in an instant. He released the boy, who tripped and began to snivel, and took a step back.

 

“Whoa! You stay away, you hear! You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

 

“Mebro?” came from behind. The priest appeared in the doorway and pushed open one of the wings with a terrible creak. He wore the same robes as the night before, with the mace dangling from his side, but his walking staff was nowhere to be seen. His face fell when he saw Dorn sizing up the thin man. “What’s happening?”

 

“That beast of yours is getting too close, that’s what’s happening,” Mebro grumbled and retreated to hide behind his cart. “Blast it, Reth! If you keep bringing these freaks every time I let you have the horse, I’ll have no choice but to stop helping you. At least take some gold of these bums you so lovingly nurse back to health. And you!" His eyes flitted to Dorn and he made a shooing gesture with his arm. "I told you to step back. Go on, get!”

 

“Utter another word, pest, and I’ll break every bone in your scrawny body,” Dorn growled but hung back. The healing he sought was within his grasp—the time to dish out the pain would come later. “I’m ready to be cured now, priest,” he announced.

 

But Reth ignored him and Mebro both and made a beeline for the crying boy. He helped him off the ground, then glared at the other man. “Have you laid a hand on Polie again? His grandmother wouldn’t—”

 

“To Hells with that old crone if she can’t keep her brat in line. Last night, the boy looked me straight in the eye and had the nerve to lie when I asked about Juniper.” The man’s eyes were bloodshot and a vein bulged on his forehead. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hairy hand, his intense gaze matching the cleric's.

 

“What happened to Juniper?” Reth said in alarm.

 

“That’s what I want to know! The girl never came home last night and this little shit tried to convince me he saw her off to my door. Or maybe it's you who's hiding her again?” He pointed a bony finger at Reth and exposed his yellow teeth in a snarl. “Did she tell you another sop story about how her grumpy old man mistreats her, or how tending pigs is too good for her?”

 

“I sent her home last night and today she showed up before dawn like always. I swear on Minn’s grave I would never do anything against your will where she was concerned,” Reth said with fervour. Mebro spat.

 

“Do not say my poor sister’s name. You think just because you’ve turned over a new leaf and are now some sort of do-gooding pacifist, that I would forgive what you’ve made her go through? It’s only because of her wishes I’ve allowed my child to have anything to do with a foreign swine like you, but it seems that’s only made Juniper more defiant and disrespectful.”

 

“Hold on now, I’ve never taught her anything but how to help people. You know it as well as I do that she’s a very talented potion-maker just like her grandmother.”

 

“Don't you dare drag my mother into this, too, may her soul rest in peace!”

 

Dorn’s patience had reached its limit. He was about to break up the row and drag the priest inside to make him cast his spells, but dizziness overwhelmed him and he went to one knee, straining his wounds in the process.

 

“Polie, go inside the temple,” Reth said with urgency, then came to help Dorn to his feet. The half-orc swatted him away and pushed himself up with difficulty. “I told you, you shouldn’t be walking around, yet.”

 

“No one orders Dorn Il-Khan,” he hissed, his vision blurring.

 

“Come, let’s get you inside," Reth said then turned to his good-brother. "Mebro, I…”

 

“Say nothing. Take care of the riff-raff.”

 

“He's not like the others. This man is a healer,” the priest argued.

 

“He could be a bloody king for all I care. Go, do your holy duty,” Juniper’s father spat, then turned to his cart. “It’s always been more important to you than family. But next time you need something, don’t bother knocking on my door. And tell that brat of mine to come home, or I’ll cane the disrespect out of her when I find her.” He climbed on, then gave Dorn one last, lingering look. “As for you, vagrant, pray to Gruumsh or whatever savage god you worship, because you’ve just made an enemy out of Mebro Delenza.” He spat and spurred his horse, leaving in a new cloud of dust. Reth watched him go with a troubled expression.

 

“It’s not good that he’s seen you,” he sighed as he sneaked an arm around Dorn's back to help him walk. The half-orc growled, but let it be. His head was pounding and the linen on his leg was stained red once again. Polie held open the door to the chapel, cowering at Dorn's fleeting glance. Despite the sorry state of the building, there was a pleasant chill inside thanks to the tall and narrow windows which didn’t allow more than a few slivers of light to illuminate the main nave. A candle was lit at the altar, where a weathered painting of Lathander’s symbol—a path leading towards sunrise—was propped against the wall. The only other things in sight were five pews hammered together from mismatched planks of wood cramped on each side of the aisle, and a door on the right side of the altar. After depositing Dorn onto one of the benches, Reth disappeared into the side room, only to return seconds later carrying his staff and a familiar bag.

 

“And my weapons?”

 

The priest hesitated, then placed the pouch in Dorn’s lap while he pulled up his sleeves. “Let me heal you first, then I will need to speak to you about an important matter. Now that my good-brother knows your name, we may not have a lot of time, Dorn.”

 

“I have not given you permission to call me by my name,” the half-orc grumbled and opened his bag to check whether his supplies had been tampered with. A quick scan proved the girl had spoken the truth and that she had not used any of his herbs to make her abominable concoction. “And what's it matter whether the simpering fool knows about me or not?”

 

Reth frowned. He asked Dorn to lay his leg up on the bench. It was a bothersome request, but Dorn didn’t argue; he cared not for these people and their family feud and wished to be done with them as soon as possible. “Thank you,” the cleric said and began chanting the words of a healing spell. The relief was noticeable, yet the pain did not subside entirely. Reth gave him an apologetic look and cast another, this time more powerful blessing. “Perhaps you’re not aware, but the grunts who have nearly killed you in Alaghôn belong to the Ruby Talons, the biggest faction of outlaws in this part of the country. They have a stranglehold on the smallfolk, and those who try to resist end up like you or worse,” he said wiping his forehead as if he were performing a strenuous exercise. After a brief pause, he began another spell. Dorn grimaced but said nothing—the man needed no spurring to wag his tongue. “I have a suspicion their leader, Hakka the Red, has some sort of connection to Alaghôn’s elites who protect him with their wealth, but I have not been able to find any proof. And fighting them on their own term is a lost cause—every time one of them is arrested, two more seem to sprout from the earth, intent on harassing those who try to oppose them. Their violence has already affected you, and I had wished to give you a chance to heal and escape from their pursuit. I overheard what they said about the reward for your head and believe me when I tell you this: they will keep coming until they’ve claimed it. As to Mebro, as hard as he’s trying to be an honest man in these difficult times, he had been involved with the Talons for a while now. He supplies them with meat and information, and sooner rather than later, he will no doubt relay your name to one of their patrolmen. I’m afraid we don't have much time for you to get well and for me to find you a way to escape—”

 

“Escape?” Dorn scoffed, then withdrew his leg and stood up. There still remained a feeling of discomfort in his thigh and around his side and shoulder, but the spells had sufficiently rejuvenated him and got rid of the stiffness in his limbs. “Listening to all this cowardly whining is enough to make me sick to my stomach. I’ve told you I have no intention of fleeing. I’m no pathetic weakling like you.”

 

“Pardon?” Reth stared at him dumbfounded.

 

Dorn regarded him with disdain. “You snivel at the fate of those you seem to care about, yet you, a former soldier, cower in this godsforsaken hovel, pretending to matter in the grand scheme of things. You disgust me.”

 

The priest’s face turned red and he rose to meet the half-orc’s accusing gaze. “I don’t know how you came to know about my old profession, but you are in no position to judge me. Only Lathander may do that, and he has granted me a chance to redeem my past sins through service to him and his children. I've sworn to commit my life to heal and help those in need and to never again raise a weapon to slay another living being. You, as a healer, should understand that.”

 

“Me? A healer? Open your eyes, blind fool. Just because I have a bagful of herbs and salves doesn’t mean tending to wounds is all I wish to do, unlike you. You’ve witnessed me fight those brigands, you should be well aware of my prowess unless your new, enlightened path has robbed you of common sense.” Dorn caught the cleric by the folds of his robe and lifted him off his feet, then snatched the mace from his side. “And since you claim you wish to hurt no one, allow me to relieve you of this. I’ll be needing it to cave in the skull of whatever Ruby Talon scum is foolish enough to attack me again.”

 

“What? You can’t! That will only enrage them and bring more misery to the people!” Reth struggled to free himself but it was no use. His mouth slackened and his eyes went wide in shock at his helplessness in Dorn's grasp, despite his own size and strength.

 

“You should be grateful, priest. You have traded the glory of combat for an existence full of weakness and fear that prevents you from doing what you know has to be done. But I have no such inhibitions. I will send each and every one of the bandits who abuses your pitiful unfortunates to Hell, but not because of your sop story, but because they dared to cross Dorn Il-Khan. No one who does that gets to live,” Dorn said and shoved Reth into the pews. The cleric let out a pained grunt as the shoddy benches smashed under his weight. Polie, who had been hanging nearby, shrunk under Dorn's glare, his knees shaking like autumn leaves in the wind, and only dared to approach the fallen man once Dorn turned on his heel and marched towards the side room to find his gear.

 

His boots, gauntlets and belt were waiting for him on a decrepit table next to a narrow bed, but his weapons, or rather just the halfling’s dagger, was hidden inside a chest at its foot. He had hoped to discover the scimitar he had picked up during his fight with the brigands, but as dismayed as he was at the lack of decent weaponry, he would do with the knife and the mace until he returned to Alaghôn and reclaimed the equipment he'd left at the merchant's mansion. _Unless the thief had flogged it already._

 

An irrational fury ignited within him at the mere thought, and he could hear the grinding of his teeth. _No, he wouldn’t dare touch the Abyssal Blade_ , Dorn reassured himself. _He’s too soft when it comes to trinkets. He’d cherish my belongings for the sake of nostalgia like he'd tried to do with most of the junk I had to force him to part with._ But that memory, too, filled Dorn with rage, so he pulled on his boots and gauntlets and stuck the dagger into his belt next to the pin. He then snagged a grey travelling cloak from a hanger by the door and left.

 

Reth had got up from the floor and was holding onto the fat boy for balance with one arm and clutching his back with the other. The fall must have injured him slightly, but he was already casting a healing spell on himself. When he saw Dorn heading towards the door, he extended his hand and pleaded, “You must reconsider your decision. The hatred you are feeling will pass—there is always another way out. A way where you don’t have to let the darkness consume you and whoever you’re trying to return to.”

 

Dorn kicked the decayed doors off their hinges, the decrepit frame and painted panels shattering apart on the dirt. “Hold your tongue, priest. Those who will not fight to defend their own beliefs have no right to give me advice. The fool you speak of has sworn his life to me and then betrayed me. Hatred is the only thing I have left for him, and no arrogant brats, grasping brigands or phoney do-gooders will get in the way of bringing that lying dog to heel,” he declared in a loud, booming voice, as if the wind could carry his threat to the thief’s ears to warn him of the upcoming doom.

 

His stolen cape billowing, he left the crumbling ruin and the wretches within behind. The vision of the thief suffering his penance fuelling his every step, he embarked on the path of vengeance for his wasted love for the second and, he vowed on the scar marring his left palm, final time.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry for the delay. Slump+new chapters to write, and movie and tv distractions all around, etc. Won't promise I'll pick up the pace, but I'll try. Till next time~


	7. The Duo's Mounting Difficulties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old troubles, new obstacles, and an unknown threat looming ahead.

 

A church bell rang in the distance.

 

Anqi counted the strikes, each ring booming in his head like thunder, persistent and cruel. At the eight and final ring, he drew his left hand from the sunlit windowsill and closed it into a fist and then opened it, stretching the half-numbed digits. The scar he’d been examining with dull, bloodshot eyes for the past few minutes—or was it hours?—refused to disappear, and it gave him as much anxiety as it did relief. He had made a terrible mistake, and it had already taken a heavy toll on him, but just like the disfigured flesh, he knew the cause of his heartache could not be simply forgotten or ignored.

 

Just like the creaking and moaning from the room above. 

 

He glared at the beams on the ceiling, wishing for Imoen to wake up already. It was her tossing and turning that had roused him in the first place, and he had been forced to listen to her mumbling in her sleep. He wondered if the memory of Bhaal's taint was still haunting her as it did him, but what little sympathy he had felt for her evaporated after what had felt like an eternity of hearing 'No! No!’ over and over again. 

 

 _At least I don’t drag it out for hours_ , he thought with disdain, then shifted in the hard but comfortable bed and kicked off the linen sheets to the floor. It was time to get up, and it didn't seem like the girl was going to shut up anyway. 

 

He threw on a fairly fresh cotton shirt, feeling just a pinch of discomfort around his newly formed star-shaped scar. He would’ve been grateful to Dorn for yet another addition to his ever-growing collection of souvenirs from the many battles he'd survived. Almost, if not for the suffering caused by the fire that had almost cooked his insides. For now, he kept the newly formed scar tissue under the linens, save for a single tendril that sneaked out from under his shirt and climbed along with his artery to his jaw. Once the wound healed, however, he planned to show it off like any respectable pirate would. A sad smile crept onto his lips for the childish fantasies he used to hang onto for so long, then dismissed them and pulled on a studded vest covered by deadly looking, red thorns. Imoen had called him prickly last night, so he might as well look the part for her. He fastened the straps of his armour, pinned the multicoloured lizard on his light, grey cloak and adjusted his sword belts. Today, his Celestial Fury was joined by Blackrazor, the nasty, black blade to fit his mood he acquired it from a genie the second time he and Dorn visited Hell. 

 

He didn't know many men who could boast of such a feat, and for the longest time, it had been something he and Dorn had believed bards would sing of long after they were bones in the ground. Now, it seemed so distant and insignificant, like a dream. And like the certainty that no matter what, it was the two of them against the world.

 

 _I betrayed him, though_ , he thought as he made sure his belongings were in order. He couldn't bring himself to dismiss his hopes of sailing the seas, but he couldn’t help but feel he should have as soon as he’d said the vow and let Dorn’s blade slice through his flesh. Or maybe he should have been straight with him right from the start, before the budding respect he'd felt for the blackguard could develop into the attraction that had sent his life spiralling down this dead-end filled only with guilt. That way Dorn would have never mistaken him for someone worthy of his loyalty, and Anqi would have never developed the presumption that he could become that person. They would have fought together and then went their own ways once the battle for the Throne of Bhaal was over, Dorn most likely storming off with disgust just like Sarevok. Anqi would have been free to become a wanderer, tied down by nothing and no one, just like his favourite book character.

 

 _Wake up, you idiot_ , he scolded himself and bit down hard on the right side of his lip. The copper taste filled his mouth. If he was going to get help from Aran or Jazim, he'd best get his head out from the clouds and keep his feet firmly on the ground. And only once he resolved Saemon Havarian’s issue with the Shadow Thieves he would attempt to rebuild his ruined relationship with Dorn. _That is, if he even wants anything to do with me_ , he thought, unnerved. Compared to that, seeking out the Shadowmaster, and if need be, making a shady deal or two with the schemer, seemed like a stroll in a park.

 

After splashing some cold water from the basin on his face, he slammed the door of his rented room. The smell of fried ham wafted through the stuffy corridor. His mouth-watering, he bounded down the stairs and passed a young serving girl who avoided his eye shyly, then spotted Bernard wiping down the tables. There were only two other people inside the dim inn: a reeking drunkard who had been sleeping in the same corner for the past two mornings, and, to his surprise, Hexxat.

 

“Good to see you again,” he said as he sat opposite of her at the long table. “How fared the hunt?”

 

The vampire regarded him with an intensity she usually saved for her enemies, but it soon melted into a reserved smile. Anqi wouldn’t have been surprised if she chose to be hostile after last night, but he was glad she'd decided to remain impartial. “I told you, I do not hunt during missions. I was away to gather information.”

 

“Hopefully about when Aran is going to be available. If I had known I’d be forced to wait this long, I wouldn’t have agreed to tombwalk with you. My stomach is still feeling queasy.”

 

“My condolences,” she said, feigning no pity. “I was after something else, but I did speak to one of the Shadow boys, and he said Aran will meet with you this afternoon.”

 

“Finally,” Anqi huffed, then noticed the fat innkeeper approaching. “Morning, old boy. Any chance for fresh ham today?”

 

Bernard wiped his sweaty forehead with the same rag he'd been using on the counter and did his best to show contrition. “No luck again, mister Anqi. The delivery boy’s leg is still acting up, but maybe tomorrow he’ll be here on time.” 

 

Anqi would have bought the lie if he hadn’t spied the man in question making the delivery the previous morning from his window, both of his legs completely fine. And, more importantly, if his nose had stopped working. He couldn’t fathom why Bernard would bother to deceive him about such a minor thing, but he wasn’t in the mood to pry. All he knew was that whatever sympathy the man used to have for Anqi after he’d rid the place of Lehtinen, the ringleader of the underground slavery operation was now gone. All that remained was undeserved hostility hidden behind polite excuses. “Eggs again, then, please, and if it’s not a bother, could you chop up some onions and peppers as well? Oh, and if you have any of that leftover stew from last night, I’d love some of that too.”

 

“I’m afraid we’re all out,” Bernard answered with a curt smile and shuffled away. 

 

“I guess meat’s off the menu for me too,” he sighed and propped his chin on his fist; he didn’t care to know why the man suddenly hated him, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to be petty about it. _Two can play at that game, fatso._

 

“One can get used to the sporadic lack of fresh blood. Too much can make one drunk on it,” she said pointedly. 

 

Anqi shifted in his seat. “No need for that tone. I’m quite aware of how much I drink.”

 

Hexxat raised a brow. “I used to think so while we travelled together, but from what I heard last night, it seems you'd forgotten yourself. At first, I thought you were making such a fuss because your argument had something to do with Dorn,” she said, her eyes searching his. "But that wasn't the case, was it? It was about your family. Your true family."

 

Anqi’s face darkened. "Dorn's as true a family as it gets." He had been missing him last night and drank several tankards of mead more than what was his usual amount. Imoen had tried to take away the last one he'd bought, and that had led to an argument. They had butted heads, hard, their row becoming much more heated once the topic had switched to Gorion, and more precisely how disappointed he would've been if he could see what had become of his ‘precious ward’. Anqi knew how very well; he’d been living his entire free life the way he chose to, knowing full well the old man would not have approved. But no matter how much he spelt it out for his half-sister, she couldn’t understand that he simply didn’t care about their foster father as much as she did. She then tried to blame Dorn for his 'degeneration', of course, and in his anger, Anqi told her that his partner was everything Gorion, and her, had failed to be as his family. He’d never thought about his lover in that light before, but the argument had rung true when he uttered it. It must have been the same for Imoen because upon hearing it she stomped off in tears. “Since you’re so adamant about snooping, I at least hope you enjoyed the show more than I did, and certainly more than her," Anqi said with a forced smile. "Or perhaps you were glad to have an opportunity to have her cry her eyes out on your shoulder. She did take forever to finally shut up.”

 

Any trace of warmth drained out of Hexxat's onyx eyes, and Anqi felt his mind growing foggy. “I don’t interfere out of gratitude for what you’ve done for me concerning L, but do not mistake my inaction for approval. I have a very good memory when it comes to both favours and grievances, I'm sure you realise. And I'm sure you wouldn’t want to alienate yet another person who doesn’t already detest you just because you like to make Imoen suffer, would you?”

 

“What’s this about my dear friend suffering?” Bernard slammed the plates on the table, snapping Anqi awake from the trance-like state. The half-elf shook his head and glared at Hexxat, then grabbed for the plate with his breakfast, but the innkeeper swiped it away from him. “Imoen has been a blessing for this city, everyone in the slums can tell you that. I remember how terribly you treated Jaheira two years ago. Oh yes, old Bernard knows, so don't try to pretend it wasn't so. And if you’ve done anything to make that sweet girl Imoen cry too, why, then I’ll—” 

 

“You’ll what?” Anqi rose. He was only a few centimetres taller than the man, and much, much slimmer, but the innkeeper cowered under his stony glare and flinched when the half-elf slipped his hand into his pouch. “I’m done with you,” Anqi said with disgust and slammed a fistful of coins on the table next to his breakfast. He snatched a shrivelled pepper, looked it over, then threw it at Bernard’s face. “The money's for the room. You can keep your rotten food. I hope you choke on it and the fat ham you’ve been hogging.” He turned on his heel and walked to the door past the serving girl who was clutching her broom to her chest in fright. He paused in the doorway. “Hexxat, I’ll be at the compound when it’s time, but until then, don’t bother tailing me. We wouldn't want poor, sweet Imoen to be missing any of her dearest friends now, would we?”

 

He shut the door behind him and stepped over a puddle of piss, trying not to breathe in too deeply. Just like Alaghôn, Athkatla’s coastal climate made the summer mornings almost unbearably hot, but unlike waking up refreshed from sleeping next to the lush garden in Jazim’s estate the foul stench of the Slum District made him want to vomit. Or perhaps it was what Bernard had said. 

 

The city’s docks were no better, with the place stinking of sewage and fish. And while the Temple and Government Districts allowed him to enjoy fresher air when he dropped by to replenish his stock of holy water two days ago, they were swarming with guards and knights he preferred to avoid. And after the frigid welcome he’d experienced in the dump that was the _Copper Coronet_ , he doubted the rest of Athkatla would treat a rogue like him any better. Yet, before he knew where he was headed, his feet brought him to one of the few places in Amn he remembered fondly. He threw on the cloak’s hood and ambled past the spear-wielding sentry, then climbed the steps with a spring in his step. He patted the stone muzzle of the lion figure guarding the grand arcs and marble columns of the entrance to the crowded promenade of Waukeen, sudden swelling of nostalgia filling his heart.

 

Then he froze and stared at the tentless arena, the joy rotting like fruit left too long out in the sun, feeling more disappointed at the circus’ absence than he could have ever imagined. He had spent the previous days stalking the Shadow Thieves’ compound at the docks, hoping to meet or at least see the elusive Shadowmaster, so he had no time to wander around town. He had never expected Quayle’s circus to have moved on while he had been away, though thinking about it rationally, it was obvious they would have left the city eventually. Still, he had hoped to see the show and kill some time, and maybe catch a glimpse of the two companions he’d left behind. He had no intentions of actually speaking to Aerie, of course, and especially not to Neera. After the callous farewell he’d orchestrated for her he was convinced their reunion would end with something, or someone, burning, but there had been moments during his travels when he'd grow a little curious about how she fared. And yet, since their tent had been replaced with more stalls, he decided not meeting the two women who used to think they loved him was for the better and settled on browsing through heaps of junk to take his mind off of them. The vendors seemed to have it all: enchanted silver cutlery that never got dirty, magical birthing amulets from Chult, a whole menagerie of animals carved in ivory, wooden pipes played by a trained monkey. Some of the merchants tried to trade their goods for his mantle or pin or weapons, but he turned them all down. There was no amount of gold or trinkets they could offer him for any of his personal belongings, so after the fourth time he heard: “What say you, friend, my sword for yours?” he pushed his way out of the busy marketplace and headed north through the familiar back roads. 

 

It seemed like yesterday when he was prowling the narrow streets of Athkatla, doing jobs for the Shadow Thieves and exterminating Bodhi’s vampires with a team he’d trusted enough to keep around. Now it seemed he was surrounded by those who only sought to use or deny him, and the only person he thought he could count on, hated him. 

 

_And whose fault is that, fool?_

 

He clicked his tongue and focused on navigating the narrow path ahead. He had to jump over a pile of trash being pecked at by seagulls and duck under a weathered sign before he finally made his way to one of Athkatla's main roads. He crossed it after a wagon carrying fish barrels rolled past, and then turned left and up the stairs that led him under a portcullis and up to the Bridge District. The smell wasn’t much better here than in the slums, but at least the elevation allowed the breeze to soothe the heat. His stomach rumbled, so he followed it to his favourite inn in town, the _Five Flagons_ , hoping he would receive a warmer welcome than in the _Copper Coronet._ It didn’t bother him all that much that Bernard had a bone to pick with him over Jaheira, of all people, as much as him defending Imoen. The druid had been a friend of Gorion’s and had a problem with Anqi associating himself with someone like Dorn. The nosy half-elf loved to point out how disappointed his foster father would have been to see him sink so low, which only made him dislike her higher-than-thou attitude all the more. It also made it incredibly easy to dismiss her when she forced him to choose between the man with whom he had been smitten and her beloved balance. Seeing her slink back to her Harpers had been satisfying, but not as much as seeing the approving smirk grace Dorn's lips. If he could only see it again, he'd send Imoen, and even Hexxat, packing just like Jaheira.

 

“Hey there, fella. Looking for a good time?”

 

Distracted from his thoughts, Anqi turned to see Rose Bouquet, one of the whores who liked to prowl the streets of the Bridge District, parading her tremendous cleavage and waving to him. “Isn’t it a bit early for that?” he asked with a grin and approached her—as always she smelled of her namesake flower.

 

“It’s never too early for Rose to take care of your worries and chase that big frown off your face,” she cooed puckering her red lips. “Hey, haven’t I seen you around here before?”

 

Anqi adjusted his hood and gave her the biggest smile he could muster. “Doubt it. I’m sure a lovely lady like yourself doesn’t need to pay heed to a tramp like me.”

 

“If every tramp was as charming as you,” she chuckled. Anqi bowed and went past her—the _Five Flagons_ was just around the corner. “I’ll be here if you change your mind, sugar. You look like you could use some loving.”

 

 _Do I ever_ , he thought and waved her goodbye, then pushed open the inn’s door.

 

It was as empty here as it was in the _Coronet_ , but instead of a drunk snoozing and a maid cleaning up, Samuel Thunderburp and his wife Thalia were having an argument behind the counter. At the chime of the bell, the halfling couple snapped their shaggy heads towards the door. 

 

“We’re not open yet,” said Thalia sharply.

 

“Welcome!” cried Samuel, visibly relieved to have been interrupted. His wife slapped him with a rag and stomped off into the kitchen. The inn’s owner removed the piece of cloth from his head and stuffed into his wine-stained apron. Anqi smiled; some things were always the same.

 

“Trouble with the missus?” he asked as he made his way to the counter. The halfling waved him off.

 

“Just the usual nagging: ‘You forgot to order more ale, Samuel.’ ‘The table in the corner has a wobbly leg, Samuel.’ Nothing this halfling hasn’t heard and ignored a hundred times before!” He laughed at the top of his lungs, which his wife answered with a few choice words from the kitchen. “Ah, marriage, the biggest curse and blessing. Anyway, what can I do for you, traveller? Looking for a place to stay? Some good wine? I’ve got the best spirits in town, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise!”

 

“You always were a braggart, Samuel, but you did have the best mead,” Anqi said and removed his hood. The halfling frowned in confusion, but then his eyes widened, as did his smile.

 

“As I live and breathe! The only surviving Bhaalspawn himself!” he cried and leaned over the counter to grab him in a tight hug. “Thalia! Get in here and look who it is! It’s Anqi!”

 

To say he was shocked at the reaction was an understatement. The rogue squirmed out of the embrace and pressed a finger to his lips. “Keep it down, friend. I’m incognito.”

 

“Oh!” Samuel exclaimed, then covered his mouth. 

 

His wife poked her head out of the kitchen and scowled. “Anqi? The one who got our Mazzy involved in some shady business with the thieves’ guild, then left her to deal with the paladins on her own?”

 

“Bah, woman! Why must you always bring up your petty grudges? He’s helped the city plenty defeating the vampire hordes. And don’t you remember our dear Raelis and her troupe?” 

 

“Oh, yes? Why don’t you tell him what happened to Haer’Dalis, then?” Thalia hissed and went back to her duties. Samuel’s grin withered.

 

“What happened?” Anqi asked, unease creeping up his neck.

 

“Ah, long story, my friend. Long and not very fitting for a happy reunion,” the halfling said, suddenly sounding old and tired. The rogue frowned; he’d never seen Samuel listless like this before, his shoulders hunched as he began wiping the counter idly with his wife’s rag. Something caught his eye. Behind the halfling and above the shell full of bottles of every shape and size hung a familiar harp. 

 

“Is that…?”

 

“Aye. It was Haer’Dalis’. The lad played many a fine tune on it, most of them drunk out of his mind," the halfling chuckled fondly. "He often got into fights, but my patrons loved him.”

 

 _‘Loved?'_ "What happened, Samuel?” Anqi insisted. The innkeeper looked up at the well-cared-for instrument and sighed.

 

“Sit down, friend. Let me pour us a drink. We’ll both need it, I think.”

 

Anqi's stomach growled noisily. “I still haven’t eaten anything." Samuel raised his brows, filled two glasses with the good mead and called to his wife, “Woman, get the boy something to sink his teeth in!”

 

They both moved to one of the tables and after a few minutes Thalia came out with a plate full of thick ham slices, a cup of fresh butter and half a loaf of fragrant, crispy bread. Anqi’s mouth watered at the sight. “Thank you so much,” he said with more sincerity than he thought he was capable of, at which the woman’s grimace lessened a little.

 

“Don’t you dare give him a friendly discount,” she warned her husband, but Samuel waved her away and raised his cup.

 

“To old friends,” he made a toast, then added, “Don’t listen to her—it’s on the house.” 

 

Anqi smiled and mirrored the motion. He would still pay for everything, but for now, he wanted to humour his gracious host. “So, tell me.”

 

Samuel drained his cup and refilled it, then looked back at the harp. “It was about a year and a half ago, sometime after the word of the Bhaalspawn War reached the city. Everyone thought it was some mad gossip at first, but not Haer’Dalis. ‘I used to be in the company of one such Bhaalspawn!’ he would tell everyone and sing of the adventures you had together.”

 

“We’ve not been together for that long,” Anqi argued, brushing over the scar on his shoulder the tiefling had gifted him in their duel. It had been a silly thing too, fighting over Aerie who did not love him and whom Anqi did not care for either, but Haer'Dalis' passion had trumped over his reason. The end of their companionship had been bloody and bitter, and Anqi had not lingered long on it—Dorn had made sure of that—but sometimes he wondered if their short-lived acquaintance could have turned into a lasting friendship.

 

Samuel smiled. “You know bards, always keen on altering the truth to fit a grand narrative. Of course, we didn’t know if it really was you who survived the war, at least not at first, but Haer’Dalis wasn’t discouraged by that. He praised your prowess and painted you as a fearsome warrior. The people loved his songs, and soon my inn was packed with crowds who wanted to learn of your exploits. Unfortunately, not all who came to see him were just curious townsfolk.

 

“It was a night a few months back, Hammer, I believe, where four armour-clad guests arrived seeking to hear his tales. By then, most of the local folk’s interest had died down, so the inn wasn’t very busy. Haer’Dalis had been in one of his melancholy moods, drowning his sorrows in wine, and he wasn’t keen on revisiting the past for the public. The knights insisted, and when he continued to deny them, they brandished their weapons and forced him to tell them all he knew about you at swordpoint. I tried to throw them out for threatening my dear friend, but one of those thugs turned his blade on me. Haer’Dalis, the lovely lad, he implored them not to hurt me and began making up a story that would satisfy them, but as drunk as he was, the lies he was telling weren't making much sense, so they took him for further questioning. His harp remained behind and we’ve held onto it, hoping he’d be back to reclaim it, but he never did. I had gone to seek help from the Knights of the Radiant Heart, but they told me those visitors weren’t just some ruffians, but the Queen of Tethyr’s Royal Knights seeking information about the Bhaalspawn who had helped bring ruin to their nation.”

 

Anqi swallowed the last bite of the ham with difficulty. “Ruin!?” he spat, his voice quivering with anger. “First, she puts a bounty on my head for something I did not do, then she goes after my friends, the bitch. Where is he now? Where’s she keeping him?”

 

Samuel wiped the corners of his eyes with the rag. “He’s nowhere,” his wife answered from the entrance to the kitchen, her arms crossed over her chest and a bitter grimace on her face. “They hanged him for conspiring with the Bhaalspawn against Tethyr's Crown. D'you hear? Haer’Dalis died because of you.”

 

“Thalia! That’s too cruel!”

 

“It’s the truth! If it weren’t for this riff-raff’s war, this would have never had happened to our friend.”

 

Samuel slammed his fist on the table. “I’ve served him mead many times and so have you—should they have tried us too?” Thalia hissed something in return, but Anqi couldn't even hear them any more.

 

 _That thrice-damned idiot_ , he thought, imagining the intrepid tiefling who had taught him to play a few notes on the same harp that was now a sad memento, hanging from a noose like a lifeless marionette put away after the show. To die like that was just too sad for a man like Haer'Dalis, but Anqi couldn't help but feel furious.

 

"Do you have any idea what he's told them?"

 

Thalia clicked her tongue, disgust plain to see on her face, and spun on her heel. Samuel shook his head. "When they... when it happened, they said that one of his so-called crimes was harbouring information about you. The knights looked rather miffed, so I believe he'd told them nothing they wanted to hear."

 

"He should've told them something, anything at all just to delay them," Anqi groused under his breath. _The one time there was an absolute need for your tongue to waggle, you kept silent, you bloody singer!_

 

"I'm sure he didn't want to endanger his friend," the innkeeper said and patted Anqi's hand, his kind words aiming to comfort him, but it was the last thing the rogue wanted to hear.

 

"I don't want friends to get themselves killed," he scoffed and pushed himself up and spilt a handful of coins on the table. Just like Knobber, Haer'Dalis should have been more clever, should have known how to keep himself safe. _Dorn was right_ , he thought biting down his lip. Mingling with others was no good, there was nothing in it but misery.

 

"I know it must be hard on you, but don't go blaming yourself. Haer’Dalis was always proud of having known you and often shared his regret of challenging you and leaving your group.” Anqi scowled. It made his left eye sting so he rubbed it, careful not to damage the scar and cause it to bleed again. “There, there,” Samuel cooed. “No need to shed tears for him. As long as you remember him and keep his songs in your heart, I think he’d be satisfied.”

 

"That's rich," Anqi whispered with spite, then turned to leave the inn. His stomach was in knots. He needed to get some air.

 

"Wait! There's one more thing!" Samuel pulled at the hem of his mantle. The half-elf gritted his teeth, wanting nothing more to shake him off, but Samuel sounded serious. “Not three weeks ago another a couple of strangers came snooping around, a half-orc man and an elf woman, asking for the Scourge of the Sword Coast. Haer’Dalis had sometimes used that name in his songs to describe you, so I told them nothing, but they kept coming back every day for a week. I haven’t seen them since, but they still might be lurking around somewhere, so stay on your guard.”

 

 _More bloody vultures_ , Anqi thought as his hands found his sword grips. “Thank you, Samuel. If they are still here, I best be off, before I get you involved in whatever they're after." _Or killed._

 

“Don't fret, my friend. I’ve been through many tough spots myself, I know how an adventurer’s life can sometimes get. It'll take more than some thugs to give me trouble,” Samuel said with confidence, but Anqi knew he was being considerate. 

 

 _Considerate and foolish. Thugs may not scare you, but the knights obviously did._ Still, he bent down to let the man embrace and pat him on the back. 

 

“Take care lad, and remember: you’ll always find a warm welcome here as long as I draw breath, you hear me?”

 

"Thank you. I won't forget this," he told the halfling, promising himself never to set foot not only in his inn but in the city of Athkatla ever again, then pulled his hood over his head and left the _Five Flagons_ forever. All he needed now was to see Aran Linvail and conclude the Havarian farce, then he'd be free to return to the one comrade he knew would not die on him. Perhaps their reunion would end up being another bloody affair, but he'd rather bleed himself than add more people to his conscience, including those Dorn may have cut down while they were separated. Anqi had never wished to quell his partner's bloodlust, but there was a big difference between a glorious slaughter of well-matched enemies and the pointless killing of defenceless bystanders, and he believed he had lowered the death-toll among the latter significantly while travelling with Dorn. However, he never expected those who were spared to then later lose their lives because of him, like Haer'Dalis. Anqi could just envision his partner mocking his pointless benevolence, but even imagining him like that put the rogue's heart at rest.

 

 _As long as he's by my side, just the two of us will manage. Unless he'll finish me off for good this time_ , he thought without humour. Dorn had gone for the kill once, he could try it again, but this time Anqi will be prepared for him. This time he won’t let his own emotions get the best of him and, most importantly, he won’t assume he is untouchable. _As long as he'll hear me out, I still have hope._

 

His mind made up, he made his way back down the stairs and took a right, then another right, keeping to the shadows between houses, and headed towards the docks. When he reached a tiny square, he paused and then ducked left and doubled back at the next intersection of paths. To anyone observing him he would look like a fretful visitor lost in the city, but back when Athkatla was his playground, he’d discovered that was the best way to avoid being surprised by thugs or to lose a tail. However, this tail wasn’t some amateur.

 

He first noticed someone following him when he passed a stray dog eating trash a few turns back. The mutt growled, its hackles raised and his tail stiff between its legs, but Anqi kept a safe distance and marched right past it. When the dog kept on growling, he knew he wasn’t alone. Whoever thought they could match the Scourge of the Sword Coast in stealthy pursuit, well, they were about to learn how wrong they were the hard way.

 

Taking a sharp turn right, he broke into a sprint and heard a man’s voice curse behind him, and another pair of footsteps above and to his left. _What a fool to be roof-running in broad daylight._ He sneaked his hand into his case scroll and pulled one out from the bottom of the stack. He led his tail through the twisting, narrow paths until they reached the edge of the docks and burst out onto a wide road with carts and people milling about. He startled a vendor of trinkets set up on the side path, waited for a beat and then leapt in front of a horse cart, rolling on the beaten path to avoid getting trampled. Unless his pursuer above had an inhuman ability to jump, he or she would have no choice but to jump off the roof and into the street. Anqi was counting on just that as he read out the spell from the scroll and cast it behind him. He darted into the alley between the buildings ahead and pressed himself inside a doorway as a mass of sticky webs sprouted from the middle of the street. Shrieks and gasps of the passersby who got caught in it filled the air. He couldn't hear the voice of the man, but when he peeked out to see if he’d caught his pursuers, he saw a modestly armoured half-orc struggling to get off his knees at the mouth of the alley Anqi’d ran out of. His other tail turned out to be a slim woman wearing a black hood. She was sprawled in the centre of the web, where he had thought she'd land. As both flies buzzed angrily, he plunged his hand into his bag and produced his fast-firing Tuigan bow. He nocked a poison arrow, just to be sure, yet before he could loose it at his pursuers, a wagon burst free from where the webs had dissolved. The panicked horse leapt blindly ahead as its driver cried out a warning. With a loud crunch, the wheels rolled over the web-covered hooded figure. Anqi didn’t look away as it happened, but the woman’s comrade did, his eyes wide and his face as white as the magical strings that held him. The half-elf adjusted his aim and let the arrow fly true, and a moment later his second pursuer was dead. Anqi stashed his bow and retreated from his doorway, then made a loop behind the houses and crossed the road a few buildings away from the enchanted area, doubling back to the mouth of the alleyway where the half-orc laid unnoticed by anyone. By then, the web spell had petered out and the people were picking themselves up from where they had tripped and fallen. Someone had called a guard, and the Athkatlan pikeman was running over to inspect the site of the accident. The rogue crouched over the man he had shot, putting himself between his body and the guard so that he wouldn’t notice the arrow sticking out of his neck nor the stream of blood seeping under his armour. 

 

“You alright there, buddy?” Anqi asked loudly enough to be heard, but not loud enough to draw attention to himself. Just a citizen concerned about the well being of his neighbour, that’s all he was. “Ah, you had a nasty fall. Let’s get you up.” He leaned over the half-orc and broke off the arrow shaft, then pulled the large man’s arm over his shoulder and lifted him off the ground. He hissed in pain, the skin on his chest and the healing muscles protesting under the strain. A heavy hand gripped his other shoulder.

 

“Everything alright? Does your friend need help?” asked the guard. Anqi half turned, showing the unmarred side of his face, and smiled through the discomfort as best as he could.

 

“Naw, but thank you, good sir. I’ll be awright with ‘im,” he said, feigning a provincial accent. He motioned to the road with his chin. “That there’s some gruesome accident, ain’t it?”

 

“That it is. Did you see what happened?”

 

“All I saw was my friend ‘ere getting all covered with this gross white goo. I stayed back, didn’t want to get meself caught, you know? Then I ‘ear this awful crack and that’s it.”

 

Dismayed, the guard scratched his forehead but accepted his answer nonetheless and returned to the trampled carcass of the she-elf, while Anqi carried the other body deeper into the alleyway. As soon as he rounded the corner, he dumped the heavy half-orc and searched through his belongings. All the man had on him was some loose change, a stack of bolts, a small crossbow and an envelope. The seal depicting a bird in flight was broken and inside he found a thrice folded piece of parchment. It was a bounty notice. His own faded picture from two years ago stared him in the face. The skull tattoo was still adorning the left side of his forehead, his left ear was whole and the hair in his mohawk was longer, its strands falling over his brow. The bounty itself, however, was different from how he remembered it. Hundred seventy thousand, it read. The last time he'd seen one of these posters, the Tethyrian queen was offering a hundred and twenty thousand, shortly before he and Dorn had left her land altogether and moved south-east to the Border Kingdoms. He remembered it well because his partner’s bounty had been only a quarter of that, which the half-orc had considered a great insult. There was another piece of parchment inside the envelope, a letter addressed to Gildi and Rahab. _At least I’ve got names to match to the corpses._

 

 _‘Stay behind in Amn,’ he read. ‘The captain believes the Bhaalspawn may return, and with him the Butcher. I’ll follow our lead to Turmish, but were it to run cold, I’ll be back to collect you both.’_ The signature read _‘M.W.’_. It seemed the vultures had caught their scent and were sniffing in just the right places. 

 

 _Godsdamnit, not now!_ He gritted his teeth; there was no time to waste, not when Dorn was missing. Aran would most likely get a better deal than he deserved, but Anqi needed to get back to Alaghôn as soon as possible. He slipped both parchments into his scroll case and was about to leave for the Shadow Thieves’ compound and demand to see the Shadowmaster immediately when he noticed something white smeared on the dead man’s cheek. He yanked his head by his sweaty, brown fringe for a closer look.

 

 _A white bird?_ He tried to recall seeing a symbol like that in his travels but drew a blank. Could it be a new guild, or was the bounty hunter just fond of doves? He wished he could take a peek at the woman’s broken body, but he dared not approach it at this time. From his bag, he slipped out Kundane, his slim and quick short sword, and peeled off the marked skin—if it was indeed the work of an unknown group, he preferred to learn who they were sooner rather than later, and Aran was the best source of information he could access. He stashed the skin and the sword away, then skulked from the alley, passing the mangy mutt from before, who sniffed the air and made its way towards a fresh meal.

 

***

 

Dorn's stomach rumbled as he flicked the blood and brains off of the dead stable boy's mace and stuffed it under his makeshift belt he'd fashioned from a piece of rope. The weapon was a little rusted and did not fit well in his large hand, but the stallion he found in one of the stalls was built just right for him. Tall and muscular, if slightly underfed, it would do for his trek back to Alaghôn. When Dorn approached the beast, it shied from him, its nostrils flaring at the smell of gore, but with a few calm words and firm but gentle strokes to its neck, it allowed itself to be saddled and led outside. The fresh air helped it settle further, and Dorn found no difficulty mounting it.

 

 _The boy had trained this one well_ , he thought, then kicked his stallion's sides and galloped north, riding along a dirt path parallel to a narrow moat around Jathrin's Jump. It was best to get away as far as possible before any of the villagers discovered the body and raised the alarm. His empty stomach protested again, but he couldn't afford being discovered while sneaking inside the town to find provisions. The horse theft was enough of a gamble, but he had to do it unless he wanted to spend the whole day and possibly night walking to the city. His companion had to be dealt with as soon as possible.

 

After half an hour of swift riding, he looked over his shoulder. The road behind him was empty, so he slowed down to a canter as not to tire the horse out prematurely. The day threatened to become another scorcher, but the sea breeze that filled his cape was enough to keep them both cool. The rhythmic swaying of the saddle and the hoofbeats muffled by the dirt reminded Dorn of his time in the mercenary band. Back in the Border Kingdoms, they spent as much of their time travelling from one battlefield to another as building the camps and fighting. It was something he'd got accustomed to quickly, as opposed to his companion, who used to either ride a cart alongside the wounded or walk with the footmen. It was then when Dorn had discovered his ridiculous fear of horses. Try as he might, he could never get the half-elf to trust the beasts. Several times he had to walk away from him when his frustration had reached a boiling point, or else he would have thrown the brat on horseback regardless of his protests. Perhaps he should have done it instead of spoiling him.

 

A low growl rumbled in his throat. What a fool he had been. A fool drunk on the blood of countless enemies during the day and the smell and feel of his companion's body at night. But all that it had been was just a trap. A sweet one, but a trap nonetheless, designed to quell his anger over the half-elf's foolish decision to refuse godhood. 'What good would all that power do us, if we couldn't have this?' he had once asked as they kissed, their bodies joined as one. Dorn had never answered, too caught up in his pleasure. The memory chafed him now. Respect, freedom, vengeance—that had been the prize he had exchanged for the love of one man.

 

He tightened the grip on the reins, the leather strap digging into the scar—the symbol of his folly. How could he have believed a liar's vows? The half-elf had never understood the gravity of the proposal he had so quickly submitted to—had never wanted it. Dorn had been too caught up in the intensity of his own feelings to see through the half-elf's vague honeyed words, which he should have realised had aimed to confuse or obfuscate the truth. It had worked on him for so long, but finally, Dorn could see what his companion had always been: a cowardly child. There was only one thing the orcs used to do in his village to spineless whelps like that. He too inherited that urge to crush such weakness, especially in those close to him, but the rogue...

 

_'Because I love you!'_

 

The rogue was his blood now, plain and simple. Dorn had to make sure that which belonged to him was strong. Still, his weakness along with his conniving nature could not be trusted. He would have to break his wilful companion down and build him from the ground up. It would take time, but there was no other choice if he wished to honour the sacred bond the ritual had created. They had both shed enough blood for each other and, if he accomplished his goal, they would continue to do so, but the half-elf needed someone to spill the bile that poisoned his mind and heart. There was no room for his pathetic attachment towards unnecessary ideas and people in their relationship. He would start his lessons by removing the merchant and with him, the nonsense dream of sailing his own ship. The snake, Havarian, would be next, for disregarding Dorn's warning and going behind his back to tempt his companion with suspicious deals. Once, the pirate had helped him to save the rogue's life, but now he was aiming to drag him into his mediocre world of pirating. Dorn would not allow it, gratitude be damned. He had learned of its real value among the orcs and the scum of Luskan, and for that, he had been glad. It only ever served to shackle those who strived for greatness, and, as short-lived as it usually turned out to be, would leave him stranded if he were to honour it. He knew better now to focus on real and tangible goals to pursue, but his companion had yet to learn of the folly of his childhood notions. But Dorn would help him change that. He would remain devoted to the half-elf so long as there was a chance to steer him back to the right path. If not, well, that would be to his companion's detriment. The blood oath did not require affection, and with time even the pigheaded rogue would bend to Dorn's will, as he had done for him so many times before.

 

A wagon appeared from beyond the hill in the distance. It rattled and creaked noisily, and, as it approached, Dorn could see the horse's sides were lathered. The driver, an elderly human, looked frightened, and for a moment it seemed he was trying to slow the wagon down. Dorn had a suspicion the man wanted to speak to him, which he preferred to avoid, but upon seeing his face, the geezer paled, snapped the whip and sped off. Dorn turned his horse about to watch him for a moment and, squinting, noticed a rider and a cart coming their way. The driver of the wagon yelled something at them and then pointed in his direction, but Dorn couldn't make out the words. The rider kicked his black horse into a gallop, leaving the others behind. Dorn tensed in anticipation, his hand resting on the mace's grip. Then, as the rider was growing closer, he recognised the white and blue headscarf and a red sash tied around his waist. He wrested the weapon from his rope belt. It was the Ruby Talons' scout he had seen at the crossroad's inn. But even as Dorn was preparing for an attack, the scout kept his eyes on the horizon, and neither drew his weapon nor showed any signs of slowing down. 

 

Until the man in the cart whistled. 

 

Both the rider and Dorn whipped their heads around, the former slowing to a trot, his horse snorting and tossing its head impatiently. Dorn looked again and, this time, he recognised the lanky figure of the driver as well as the shaggy girl sitting beside him.

 

"What in the blazes are you doing!?" Mebro demanded, flailing his hand over his head. "That's him!"

 

Dorn turned his horse to face the scout, who finally took notice of him. "It was you?" the man said with disbelief and reached for his scimitar, but never drew it. Most of his face was hidden behind the headscarf save for a sliver for his eyes, which kept fleeting back to the road ahead. His horse danced underneath him, mirroring his rider's hesitation. Dorn was happy to help him make the choice and spurred his steed onwards. "Talos smite you!" the scout spat, but instead of the sword, he produced a many-thonged whip and snapped it over his horse's rump three times. His black stallion burst into a full-speed gallop, leaving Dorn to shield his face from the cloud of dust he'd kicked up, and the choice to follow the much faster animal, or to stalk the prey nearby. He turned the horse around.

 

"Ha! Some great warriors your stupid Talons are!" Juniper jeered and pointed at the rider. "Just look how fast he's run—!"

 

Mebro backhanded her. She fell back onto the cart and covered her face. "You disloyal, insolent, little—!" He hit her again and again, then unfurled his whip and raised his arm. "When I'm through with you, not even your own mother will recognise you!"

 

Dorn caught the whip before it could slice the girl's skin apart, wrapped it around his arm and yanked Mebro off the cart. The man crashed to the ground with a grunt. "You should have stayed home after you told the red brigand of my whereabouts. Now it's time for _you_ to pray to your god, for no one threatens Dorn Il-Khan and lives." He jumped off his horse and advanced on Mebro, who was crawling away from him, terrified. Just like the fallen blackguard liked it.

 

"Stay away, you beast!" the man cried. Dorn bent over and caught him by his neck and lifted him off the ground as if he weighed no more than a bag of meat, then slammed his back into the side of his cart. His prey moaned in pain. Replacing the mace, he pulled out the halfling's dagger and felt the heat rising within just as he willed it. "P-please!"

 

The girl uncurled from her defensive position and stared wide-eyed at the scene unfolding before her. A triumphant smile appeared on her battered face for a split second, no doubt enjoying seeing her father be put in his place, but as soon as she saw the hot flash of the dagger, it faded. "Wait! Stop!" she squeaked, then crawled to her father's side and tugged on Dorn's unyielding hand that was squeezing her father's neck. "You don't need to kill him. I'm fine, see? It's just a small bruise, nothing serious," she said, extending her arm to show him the reddening skin. Dorn regarded the damage with an intense glare.

 

Then he laughed.

 

"You think I'm doing this for you? Foolish brat, I could care less if he split you open in front of me and tossed your corpse into the ditch for the wild dogs to feast upon. Begone, while I teach your maggot of a father a lesson!"

 

The girl was wiser than her father, for his threat was enough for her to realise how serious he was. He could feel her small hands shake, and see her eyes fill with tears. "No, no! You can't!" she cried and tried to pry his hand off Mebro's neck, scratching and biting at the skin above the gauntlet like a wild animal trying to free their leg caught in a trap. Dorn had no patience for it. He caught her by the hair, the dagger singing the strands where the blade brushed over the locks and dragged her off the wagon with a flick of his wrist.

 

"Your brat is more loyal to you than you give her credit for," Dorn told Mebro as he squeezed his neck. "Too bad for her."

 

Mebro's eyes widened and flitted towards his daughter. He kicked his legs feebly. "No, not her," he uttered in a meaningless protest. 

 

_'Please, Blood, don’t do this.'_

 

The memory of his companion pleading lit up a hot rage inside of Dorn. "Enough of this! Die!" he growled and stabbed the man's stomach, then yanked the dagger across. Mebro writhed for a short moment as his blood boiled and hot guts spilt on the dusty road, then turned his dying stare towards Juniper. Dorn let the cooked meat drop and turned on the girl. Horrorstruck, she was too stunned to move or to even acknowledge him looming over her. Only when he reached for her did she flinch and scream and scrambled away, her tear-stricken face pale in revulsion and hatred. "Good, at least you show some semblance of self-preservation. You'll need it now that I've disposed of your father. And I wouldn't count on the priest to do much good in his stead. Perhaps he had been a warrior once, but he's chosen to become a weak and pathetic coward. I have given you a chance to outgrow both of these men."

 

She furrowed her brow and wiped her face, smearing the dirt and the tears all over. "Y-you're not going to kill me?"

 

He scoffed and put his dagger away. Wiping off the blood from his gauntlet on the inside of his stolen cape, he stepped around the bloody mess he'd made and inspected the cart's load. There wasn't much, but he did find a burlap sack holding a loaf of bread, two sausages and a full skin of what he hoped was ale, but had most likely been water. He threw it over his shoulder, then returned to his horse.

 

"Why!?" the girl sobbed, trying to climb to her feet, but retched when she took a good look at the smoking body of her father.

 

"Consider it your luck or your curse, I care not which," he said without sparing her another glance. "You simply remind me of a whelp I know. He too needs to toughen his hide, which is what I'm now going to help him do," he said, mounted his horse and kicked his sides. The obedient beast took off with a whinny, leaving the girl to watch over her father's corpse or flee to wherever the cart could take her.

 

 _I'm sure the fool would have coddled her._ Dorn could envision the half-elf ruffling her hair and telling a joke to lift her spirits, but that's what the weak did to distract themselves from their hardships. _There will be none of that when I'm through with him_ , he thought and raced ahead.

 

When he made it over the hill, the lone scout was merely a speck in the distance. He considered giving chase, but that would cost the horse too much energy. His goal was the city, and the rider could have been heading anywhere and would be able to lose Dorn on his home turf with ease if he wished. _No more distractions_ , he decided and continued at a moderate pace. When his stomach growled again half an hour later, he wolfed down most of the stolen food. Afterwards, he cut through the linen wrappings and let the wind sweep them away to ease some of the heat. The stab wounds on his leg, side and shoulder had closed thanks to the priest's spell, as did the slice running down his back. There wasn't much he could do on horseback but to stretch his sore limbs a little, but even that made him feel rejuvenated. 

 

He continued on while loosening up his muscles until the dirt road merged into the cypress-adorned promenade that ran parallel to the coast and he sped up once again, grateful for the shadowy reprieve from the blazing sun. More traffic awaited him ahead, but none of the riders and wagon drivers paid him any mind. Every person he passed wore an expression of fright or awe, and he overheard people talking in animated voices, but he never caught the words. He wondered if what had got the peasants so animated was the same thing that made the Talon scout ignore him and race ahead. Whatever it was, he expected it to have little impact on him. 

 

After two hours of hard riding, he learned he was mistaken. 

 

At first, he assumed the line leading up to the crossroads and the commotion around the three great oaks was just more vendors and revellers trying to enter Alaghôn. But as he rode past the row of wagons and carts, he heard the disgruntled drivers and passengers complain about the sluggishness of the city's response to 'such a horrible incident' as some of them called it. That made Dorn suspect a brawl had broken out or some such petty affair, but as soon as he approached the crowd gathered around the trees, he discovered the real cause of the congestion.

 

Balancing on four ladders, the azure and golden-clad guards were cutting down bodies hanging from the lower branches of one of the trees. Six more of their comrades were lining up the already lowered carcasses by the trunk. From horseback, Dorn counted nearly two dozen, all naked save for the red sashes tied around their necks. Their stomachs had been sliced open from the chest to their exposed genitalia and their curved scimitars had been shoved straight through their hearts. The guards had removed them from those who had been cut down, but those ornamenting the trees still carried the bejewelled swords. One of the grounded bandits, a bear of a man with scars crisscrossing his chest, had a red, dripping gash where his man-parts had once been. Upon closer inspection, Dorn discovered they had not been separated for long, as they had been stuffed into his mouth. But the ghastly corpse was not what made him pause—it was the body of the fat pig, Ymar, lying beside him. Someone had stolen his kills, and what he gathered from the murmurs of the onlookers, it seemed like it was another group of bandits or mercenaries. 

 

"I saw her, I did! With mine own two eyes, I saw her!" he heard an old crone tell a group of onlookers a few paces away from the gruesome display. He guided his horse towards them. "An angel sent from heaven to smite these demons herself. She had silver wings and golden hair, and she sparkled in the sun. It was a miracle, I tell you!"

 

"You're talking madness, woman," a stocky peasant spoke up pointing his finger at the last remaining hanged man. "No man, woman or even angel could take on Hakka and his entire band!"

 

"She wasn't alone, fool!" the old woman insisted, spit flying from her toothless mouth in agitation. "Her minions were frightening, some great like mountains, some as little as you, child!" She thrust her bony finger at a slim youth no older than fourteen who'd been listening to her tale with a rapt expression. "Hakka, the Red Monster, may the demons rend his black soul in Hell, and his lackeys all crumbled under the might of the Golden Angel's horde."

 

"So where is this miracle warrior, old lady? Did she go back to heaven after she was done smiting the wicked?" asked another man from the crowd. Some of his companions chuckled, but most of the gathered looked too anxious to laugh. The crone scowled and pointed toward the city. Dorn followed her finger. Then he caught sight of a striped headscarf. The scout spotted him at the same moment and spurred his horse towards the barrier. His red sash was nowhere to be seen, but he hid the bejewelled scimitar under his long vest. Dorn manoeuvred among the crowd after him. He was going to grab the scout once the sentries at the barrier stopped him, but the brazen rider vaulted over it. The guards scrambled after him; one of them blew his horn to alert the rest of his ilk, while the other was loading a crossbow. The mob, startled by the new commotion, blocked the path for the guards by the trees. Seeing his chance, Dorn kicked his horse and snatched the crossbow from its owner's hands, then followed the scout over the barrier. His quarry turned his head at the angry yells of the sentries, and, seeing Dorn behind him, whipped his horse without mercy.  

 

Dodging one, two, five slowly moving wagons, they galloped halfway towards the grand gates of Alaghôn until the brigand took a sudden turn left and jumped over the shallow ditch and into the brambles. His horse screamed at the thorns piercing its hide, but he kept on whipping it until he made it through into the rapeseed field, seemingly unscathed but for the loss of his head rag to the gnarled branches. Dorn cursed, ripped his cloak off and followed through the gap. Ignoring the scratches and broken twigs in his hair, he continued his mad dash, but the black steed of the bandit was faster than his grey. But that's what the crossbow was for. He aimed, held his breath and waited for the right moment between his horse’s strides. 

 

He took the shot, and the bolt found its target. 

 

With a yelp, the scout jerked forward. His mount swerved, and both went down, mowing the tall rapeseed stalks as they crashed. Dorn shoved the boltless crossbow into his stolen sack, then rode up to the horse who was struggling to get up. He jumped off and immediately stomped on the scout's hand to stop him from reaching for his sword. The man dropped it, whimpering, as Dorn claimed his scimitar and turned its blade on its master.

 

"Who are you working for, scum? Who wants my head?" he roared, but the man only blinked at him. He placed the tip of the sword under his chin. "Speak, or I'll skewer you where you lie."

 

But instead of information, the last Ruby Talon spilt blood from his mouth, which came gushing in great spouts. Growling, Dorn kicked the dying man over and saw that his bolt had punctured his right lung. 

 

"Curse it," he spat. 

 

There was shouting coming from the road. The drivers of the wagons were talking to the guards in the pursuing party and pointing in Dorn's direction. He ducked. Even with half-decent weapons like the scimitar and the dagger, facing half a dozen armed soldiers would cause him too much trouble. Yes, he'd be able to take down several, maybe even all of them, but he did not need that sort of attention. 

 

 _Subterfuge, bah_ , he thought with disgust, then shoved the dead scout onto his grey stallion. He tied his wrists with the reins and his ankles with the stirrup leather, then slapped the horse's rump. It bolted, carrying its deadweight for a few meters, which then slumped to the side, spooking the animal into a further dash. The decoy wasn't ideal, but it had to do. He then came at the other horse brandishing the scimitar and growling. The stallion tried to kick him, and then darted in the opposite direction of the grey, its black neck cutting through the sea of yellow flowers like a shark fin through the waves. His diversion commenced, he kept his head low and moved east towards the city, careful not to disturb the field and leave an obvious trail behind. Crouched and hiding was the opposite of what he had known his entire life, but while he was no expert, travelling with his sneaky companion had taught him a few tricks about stealth. He was no match for the half-elf's sharp ears, but he figured the guards would be too distracted by the runaways to suspect a half-orc could be skulking among the flowers. 

 

Not a minute later, the pursuit made its way to the spot where he'd killed the bandit, then split up to give chase after the two horses, while two of the guards stayed behind to investigate the bloodstains. They dismounted; one of them crouched over the soiled ground, and the other walked around the flattened area inspecting the broken rapeseed stalks. He went past the path Dorn had taken without finding anything out of the ordinary, but the half-orc wanted to make sure he would remain unseen. Inspecting the ground around him, he picked up two small rocks, and when the guard turned his back to him, he chucked them one after the other at his and his comrade's horses. The first animal whinnied and ran off a few paces, but the second tossed its head violently and reared, knocking his front hooves into its rider. 

 

"Damn horse," the guard spat as he picked himself off the ground and struggled to calm the animal down. "It must be the blood that's making her restless!" That was enough cover Dorn could hope for at this time, so he took the chance and moved on. He stopped every few paces to make sure he hadn't been spotted, but there came no sounds of alarm. After a while, the guards mounted up and followed the others. Keeping low, he ran, heading back towards the edge of the field, where he could use the narrow path in-between the rapeseed and the bushes. At one point a couple of minutes later, he had to duck back into the field as the pursuit made their way back to the road. The runaway stallions were trotting behind, tied to the guards' saddles, and the body of the scout was hanging over his grey's back. Dorn was too far away from the party to make out what they were saying, but when the one leading the grey turned towards Alaghôn, and the others sped off in the opposite direction, he knew the danger had passed for the time being. Before he climbed to the road, he tore off the remaining leg of his trousers and ripped the fabric into strips, which he then wrapped around the scimitar's bejewelled grip. He did not want to be taken as one of the Talons, especially after this 'miraculous angel' had so thoroughly dealt with them. That would no doubt lead to questions he had no time to deal with. 

 

With his new weapon ready, he found the next spot where the thorny branches grew thinner and scaled the ditch. He continued to walk on the side of the path, plucking out leaves and twigs from his tangled hair. Carriages rolled by without giving him any notice. That was good, but then he heard several female voices calling out to him in excitement. A wagon full of half-dressed revellers overtook him and then parked on the side of the road, blocking the way. A half-elf woman waved him over with a smile. She looked about twenty, but he knew that could be deceiving among her kin. Plain-faced and with some meat on her bones, she seemed harmless but for her striking amber eyes—sharp eyes that had seen their fair share of things in life. 

 

But clearly not a half-naked fallen blackguard.

 

"Need a lift, big fellow?" the mongrel woman asked. There was an amused lilt to her melodious voice. "If so, get up here—we've got plenty of room."

 

"We'll get something of yours up, alright," promised a milky-skinned, bony she-elf, whose breasts, or rather lack thereof, was covered only by a necklace made of sticks and red beads. She smiled and blew him a kiss.

 

An older woman with a bosom so massive it was spilling out of her corset elbowed her. "A flat harpy like you wouldn't tempt even the most desperate of sailors!"

 

"That's not what I've heard," the elf sing-songed and the four other girls around her giggled.

 

"Well, what do you say, stranger? Care to join our merry gaggle? You do seem like you need some kind of help."

 

With his trousers torn and his scarred torso on display, Dorn knew exactly what she meant and why these women wanted him on their wagon. Every fibre of his being screamed for him to refuse, but he ignored his instinct and climbed aboard to the delighted cheers of the girls. He wasn't going to blend in among these tittering hens, but travelling with them, especially in the state of undress he was in, would be much less suspicious at the city gates, than if he were to come on his own. It would also be faster; all he had to do was to keep his temper.

 

He found a place at the end of the wagon where there was the promised room, but soon the elf and the half-elf moved to sit beside him. "Awful business back there, did you see it?" asked the mongrel, looking over his chest scars with concern.

 

"The bodies?" he asked, unsure whether she meant the bandit he had killed and the commotion it had caused, or his comrades hanged by the 'angel' and her lackeys. She nodded.

 

"Gruesome! Brr! And right before the Feast too! Lady Firehair preserve," the elf prayed, yet her indigo eyes flitted across his torso. From the way they crinkled, Dorn could tell her intent was entirely different than her companion's. She brushed away a strand of silvery hair from her face and smiled again. "I'm Nericyne, but friends call me Nerci. How about you?"

 

One of her friends hooted, a tawny-skinned, brawny girl with a birthmark on her chin. "There she goes again. How many has it been, already?"

 

"Aw, knock it off! I'm just trying to be friendly," the she-elf hissed and smacked the girl on the arm.

 

"Just like you were friendly to that messenger at the inn. We heard him appreciate your courtesies all the way down in the common room." The women laughed. Dorn wanted to get off.

 

"Don't mind them, they're just excited about the festival," said the half-elf with a patient smile. "I'm Darviel. This is Lonna, Silde, Jelxynn and Aaya."

 

"...Krusk," Dorn said holding back the disgust from his voice.

 

"I used to know a man named Krusk back in Saerloon," Nerci piped up again and shifted even closer to him, her bony shoulder digging into his arm. "He always boasted how well he could hold his drink. Maybe he could, but believe me, he was utterly useless in bed." She smiled, her dark eyes peering into Dorn's and twinkling with mischief. "But I think this Krusk would be quite a different tale."

 

Dorn could imagine his companion's accursed snickering but tempered his rage. "You aren't wrong. However, you would do well to bark at another tree—I already have a..." _Betrayer_. "Lover. He's waiting for me in the city."

 

The elf pouted, then pounced to sit between the large Lonna and freckled Silde. She pushed her face into the vast bosom of the older woman. "Oh no, he already has someone! Whatever shall I do now?" she whined, but then burst into giggles shortly after. Her companions joined her.

 

"So you're one of those, eh?" Lonna asked and looked him up and down, not bothering to hide a mocking grimace.

 

"Well, I am flat, so maybe he'll like me anyway," Nerci told her friend, then turned to Dorn. "I can take your man's place if you were ever to break up. You won't see a difference!" Nerci said and pushed out her tiny chest. Aaya, the one with the birthmark, shoved her hand underneath the strip of silk that was covering the elf's private parts and gave it a poke.

 

"Pretty sure he'll find your extra hole a big difference!"

 

"Stop it, you!" the skinny elf yelped and kicked her leg out, laughing, commencing a play fight among the rest of the girls, until Darviel conjured and splashed water on them. That calmed them down, while Dorn continued to seethe quietly in his spot.

 

"Please forgive them. It's like their parents have raised goblins, not people," Darviel said. Nerci stuck her tongue at her, then turned to whisper in her freckled friend's ear. Silde snorted. "I hope they haven't offended you, Krusk," the half-elf added in a low voice.

 

"I care not for these girlish antics," Dorn reminded himself more than he assured the woman. It was strange, however, to have an elf be interested in him. "My tusks usually scare them away," he reflected under his nose, only realising he'd said that out loud after Darviel chuckled. His fingers twitched.

 

"Well, correct me if I'm wrong, but don't people assume half-orcs are quite large in all the places?"

 

"Now who's the dirty one?" Nerci teased, returning to her spot by Dorn's side. 

 

 _’If you can make them like you, you can fool them,’_ he remembered his rogue instructing him on his deception techniques. Back then, it was unthinkable for him to resort to such methods, and he wondered when it was that he had begun to allow the half-elf to influence his way of thinking. Was it only after their bloody vows, or had he wormed his way through the walls Dorn had so meticulously built up much earlier than that? Something violent stirred in him at the thought, but he pulled himself back to the present before it had a chance to surface, and despite himself, heeded his companion's old advice.

 

"Your friend is right," he admitted to the elf. It wasn't hard to pretend when all you had to say was the truth. Nerci blushed.

 

"Oh, Krusk! You're making me so envious of your partner!"

 

He glanced her way and forced himself to smirk, despite his thoughts being as black as a demon's heart. "There's plenty of ravenous men in Alaghôn who are waiting for women like you to look their way. It's my lover who should wish to be in your shoes."

 

"You're so silly, Krusk! I'm not wearing any shoes!" Nerci giggled and lifted her foot, wiggling her tiny toes. Dorn imagined biting them off one by one but instead focused his growing bloodlust on the people he was going to have to deal with. _As long as I get to erase that pompous merchant's snobbish grin, cut out the pirate's lying tongue, and collar the treacherous rogue, half an hour of girlish chatter won't be such a high price to pay_ , he continued to convince himself. Compared to the disaster when he had been reduced to practically begging Havarian for aid, and then having to wait, helpless, while the pirate and some hack magician decided the fate of his companion's, it was a small inconvenience.

 

And so he held his tongue as the wagon wheels creaked and the midday sun glared down on him without mercy, watching the painted gates of Alaghôn grow larger in the distance with impatience. By the time the damned wagon rolled underneath the portcullis, he was ready to start ripping heads off. The feeling doubled when it turned out they had to wait another half an hour in line. That was when the girls decided to liven up the hold-up by subjecting everyone around to their repertoire of raunchy songs. The lyrics were so lewd they could rival a seedy port town’s bard's, but at least their singing voices were much less atrocious than the mewling of his companion. So despite the nearby wagons joining in the merriment, the experience wasn't half as painful as being forced to listen to one of the half-elf's off-key solos. And then came the moment of truth when their wagon was up next for the inspection, but the young guard's attention was all on the scantily clad women wriggling their hips and chests. With such a tempting display in front of him, he spared Dorn only the most fleeting of glances as he waved them through, a goofy grin plastered on his face. The girls thanked him profusely by showing him their breasts, then settled down as the wagon came to a stop. Wasting not even a moment, Dorn peeled the bubbly she-elf off him, supplied her with the made-up name of the inn he said he was staying at, and hopped off. 

 

"I'll be thinking about you when I'm feeling lonely, Krusk!" Nerci yelled after him to the burst of gleeful hoots from the other girls. Dorn let this final humiliation wash over him with grace, then slipped into the crowd without giving the girl another glance. Wishing to avoid the slog from a few days ago, he took the turn towards the Golden Track at the first available intersection. With only two days until the Feast of the Moon, even the back roads were difficult to navigate, but his size, and especially the state of his undress were enough to clear a path among the locals. And if another reveller directed his or her wanton gaze towards him, he returned it with a scowl and a snarl, letting them know what he thought about the whole bloody ordeal. But as he moved through the teeming, smelly street, he couldn't shake the feeling that another pair of eyes—one free of lust—was following him, yet he could not spot who it was and where they were hiding.

 

"You are more aware than most members of your kind, my half-orc comrade," said a heavy-accented voice from behind him. Dorn spun with his dagger drawn but faced only startled commoners. He gave the closest one an irritated glare, then made a slow turn, carefully examining the faces in the crowd, some watching him with anxiety, some ignoring him completely. 

 

Then he saw the mask.

 

The indigo sleeping face was watching him from five metres away, the foppish drow hiding behind it leaning on the side of a building, his arm raised in a mocking salute. Dorn kept his weapon at the ready and approached the dark elf, scanning his surroundings for his brother.

 

"I'm afraid I am the only one to have come to greet you. I must admit I was quite surprised to see what kind of company you've been keeping," the drow said as he peeled himself off the wall and slipped into the stream of people, keeping two swaying bodies between himself and Dorn.

 

"The women were a means to an end, not that it's any business of yours. Whatever you think you're doing, I want nothing to do with you, so you'd best get out of my sight," Dorn warned. The chubby man in front of him turned to stare at him in confusion and then shuffled to the side to let him pass. The masked man squeezed his way ahead of another passerby, keeping a constant distance between them.

 

"I know we've started on the wrong foot, but your partner, my brother and I have put the minor differences aside and formed an alliance."

 

 _That infernal, little conniver! Scheming without my knowledge as soon as I've gone from his side._ "Your plans mean nothing to me. I'm here to end his harebrained plans and leave this rotten city."

 

The drow glanced behind him but never slowed his stride. "That's... unfortunate, yet you won't be able to do as you will right away. Our friend left the city two days ago."

 

Dorn elbowed past the two people in front of him and made to grab the dark elf, but the lithe fop danced out of his reach yet again and ducked into a narrow alley. The half-orc drew his scimitar and followed, his blade raised just in time to parry a quick jab from the masked drow, who then skipped back a few paces and raised his gloved hand.

 

"Before you do anything else, know I have no ill will towards you. This"—he wagged the tip of his sword—"was just a preventative measure to make sure my head stays attached to my neck."

 

"Tell me everything then, or you'll need more than circus tricks to keep it, drow," Dorn growled, his scimitar unmoving. The dark elf turned the blunt side of his curved blade towards him, sheathed it, then, slowly, removed his mask.

 

"My name is Erthas Taur’al, and I'd be glad if you used it. I see the colour of my skin each time I look in the mirror—I don't need you to remind me of my heritage," he hissed, his red eyes frigid, but otherwise showing no signs of further hostility.

 

“So you hide it behind a mask? What kind of man takes no pride in what he is?”

 

“One who has no reason for it,” was Erthas’ cold reply. He pulled his hood over his face and motioned for Dorn to follow. “I'll tell you everything on the way. We shouldn’t linger where we can attract the attention of vermin.”

 

Dorn followed his gaze to the mouth of the alley, where a boy and an old man were exchanging whispers and directing furtive glances their way. He turned his blade towards them. Spooked, the pair darted off. Mildly satisfied, he put away his scimitar and stalked after Erthas, who began to speak.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MMOs are scary when they're good o_o;;
> 
> Sorry for the huge delay, but the motivation (and the time) is now back! Thanks for tuning in, luv u~


	8. The Particularly Vexing Parleys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Truth hurts. 
> 
> Anqi, Imoen and Dorn have to find a way to deal with it.

Anqi flipped the knife for the hundred-fifteenth time, and for the hundred-fifteenth time drove it into the table.

 

"What in the blazes is taking so long? I've been waiting for four hours," he groaned, then yanked the slightly rusted blade out of the worn-out oak and tossed it for the hundredth and sixteenth time. A slender hand snatched it from the table before he could reach for it and slammed it down beside its fellows in the worn-out display case.

 

"And I've been telling you my merchandise isn't a toy. If you want to play with it, pay up," hissed Kaiya. Anqi rolled his eye and shuffled from her table to the shelf stacked with worm-eaten tomes.

 

"No thanks, I don't collect _junk_."

 

The fence scoffed and picked up a worn-out crossbow she was polishing then sunk to her chair. She leaned back and crossed her legs over the table which was stacked with other used weapons, leather raiments, potions and scrolls, none of which was of any interest to Anqi. The bookshelves were also full of useless things like old cookbooks, no doubt stolen from some housewife's kitchen, children's tales about magical creatures and dog-eared romance novels. He'd gone through this pitiful collection once already, after he'd sauntered around the rest of the ground floor of the thieves' guild's unassuming compound and found it utterly dull, with its dusty crates full of mundane goods and unsmiling goons unable to distract him from his real objective. It was the expansive cellar Anqi was eager to enter, but as a mere _former_ member of the guild, he needed someone to escort him in. But neither Kaiya nor Bromy the goon at the door was allowed to do so, so unless he wanted to stir up some trouble—and he was seriously beginning to consider it—he could do nothing but wait in the stuffy storehouse. 

 

Shuffling away from the uninteresting shelves, he made his way to the small room in the back again where several rogues were playing stinker, a card game of deception especially popular among sailors. Anqi had picked it up on the way from Calimport to Theymarsh in the Border Kingdoms, which he then used to make quite a lot of money gambling with his mercenary buddies. He had tried to teach it to Dorn, but after being tricked one too many times, the half-orc renamed it 'deathwish' and swore he'd gut the next person who asked him to play. Remembering the evenings he spent by the cookfire, surrounded by the rude, funny, and brash mercenaries made Anqi's heart ache. Even back then, having faith in his comrades had led only to misery. He had covered it up with hatred towards the mercenaries who'd betrayed him and Dorn for a bounty, but the feeling of disappointment had been identical to the one he'd experienced with Brammin's group. _Never again_ , he promised himself, then decided to leave the thieves to their game and began his fourth—or was it fifth?—round around the ground floor, his steps sluggish and his mood worsening by the minute. As he walked, he fingered the tattooed strip of skin wrapped in a piece of cloth inside his pocket, wondering who M.W. was. He'd already asked the thieves here, but nobody was able to tell him anything about the initials or the bird symbol. Now if only he could get into the cellar and make Aran Linvail give him some time...

 

The door slammed open and in came his ticket inside.

 

Over a head taller than Anqi, the pudgy-faced rogue wiped the sweat from his forehead and emptied his satchel onto Kaiya's freshly reorganised display. "Please tell me I didn't get chased by Lady Loretha's mangy mutt for nothing. That monster almost tore my shin apart," he said and lifted his leg to show off his shredded trousers.

 

The fence didn't spare it even a glance. "It'll buy you a few rounds downstairs, I reckon," she grumbled as she fished out an eye loupe from her cleavage and began examining the tangled-up pile of necklaces, a set of silver spoons and an ornate but empty jewel box. 

 

"Times must be hard when even special ops are forced to rob little, old noble ladies," Anqi quipped as he approached the familiar thief.

 

"Who says anything about 'forced'? This was just a bit of fun," the man replied and turned towards him. His face lit up almost immediately. "Hold on! Anqi?"

 

"In the flesh. You look good, Lathan."

 

The thief's round cheeks turned a faint shade of red. "Oh, please! See all this?" He squeezed the bit of flab sticking out above his belt. "It ain't making running from guard dogs any easier. But you look like you've seen a fair share of rough times yourself," he said and took a seat on one of the coffers lined up against the wall. Anqi grinned and followed. "I heard you were back in town. The boss is expecting you, no? He's been running around lately, cooking something big, I think, but Renal has been keeping that gob of his shut."

 

"I've had similar luck; couldn't get anything out of him for the past two days but 'wait for the boss'. It's like I'm some stranger all of a sudden."

 

Lathan laughed and offered Anqi a flask. The grog inside was strong and left the half-elf with a grimace. The thief then took a swig himself, wincing as well. "You're no stranger! The whole guild remembers what you've done to help us with the neck-biters, and we make sure everyone who comes to Athkatla knows of our friendship! Why, only a few weeks back, Aran spread the word of your upcoming arrival. It got all our little vendors shaking in their stalls, pissing their breeches about the terror the Scourge of the Sword Coast may bring with him."

 

Anqi frowned—that didn't add up. "A few weeks, you said?"

 

Lathan shrugged and took another gulp, smacking his lips. "Sure. He's told all of us, and a few of the smugglers who we employ, but for some reason not the envoys he'd sent on longer missions. Who am I to question the boss' logic, though, since we've been racking in plenty of extra protection gold."

 

 _That sweet-talking shyster_ , the half-elf rogue thought, incredulous. He jumped to his feet, startling his companion. "Lathan, do you mind if we take this downstairs? I've suddenly got this thirst your piss-water won't quench," he said, struggling to keep his voice friendly. 

 

The other thief blinked, but then laughed again and led Anqi towards the secret door to the cellar. Bromy gawked at him being so friendly with one of the guild's lieutenants and did what any decent grunt would have done: kept his mouth shut and obeyed his superior's orders.

 

The ambience in the cellar bar, which doubled as a lobby, was much more like what he always considered a thieves' hideout should look like. Dim candlelight, sword plaques decorating the stone walls, hooded figures huddled together over their drinks, and, in the distance, some poor tortured soul screaming in agony. Aran's place was just like what he used to imagine reading _The Log_. But the thrill he felt by stepping into this part of Athkatla's seedy underbelly was gone the moment he noticed a figure clad in red leather.

 

"Oh, if it isn't our little Temper Tantrum," Lathan exclaimed and bounded down the stairs. Imoen turned around and beamed at the thief. They embraced like old friends and exchanged quick pleasantries, but her smile waned as soon as she noticed Anqi. His mouth twitched and he rolled his eye pointedly. "How'd your mission go? You catch that pirate yet?" Lathan asked.

 

"She did and she didn't," Anqi interjected before Imoen could open her mouth. "That's what _we're_ here to discuss with Aran. As well as what he's been doing behind my back," he said in the sweetest voice he could muster. "And yours, dear sister."

 

***

 

Her brother's scarred grin gave Imoen the creeps. 

 

She glanced to Hexxat beside her. The vampire was still but for her glowing eyes scrutinising Anqi's demeanour. Imoen heard about the clash he'd had with Bernard and had been expecting to see the half-elf brooding. She most certainly did not expect him to speak to her so normally, if unpleasantly—not after the heated argument they had last night, which had her shamefully bawling her eyes for at least an hour. She'd got better, in the end, and had decided to put on a tougher facade in front of her insensitive brother, but Anqi's sudden switch was throwing her off. Hexxat was, as always, unphased.

 

"It is a guild master's prerogative to act without his subordinates' knowledge. That is especially true when speaking of a thieves' guild. Or have you forgotten what sort of people you're dealing with?"

 

Anqi's savage grin relaxed into something more natural, a smirk, that could almost be considered charming. "Lathan has just reminded me of that. Apparently, Aran's prerogative is to also deceive his own delegates about the details of their missions. Unless Imoen's suddenly become a professional liar herself in the span of two years, but somehow I doubt someone as naive and good-natured would be capable of duping me."

 

"Don't speak of me like I'm not even here!" Imoen snapped at him, feeling the heat rising up her neck and to her cheeks. "Lathan, what's he talking about? What did Aran do?"

 

Her chubby friend furrowed his brows and looked from her to Anqi, confused. Suddenly all blood drained from his face. "I think I've forgotten something upstairs," he squeaked and made for the stairs, but she caught him by the hood.

 

"Wait! What's going on? Tell me!"

 

"Yes, Lathan." Anqi blocked his way out, the tone of his voice sounding more like the half-orc—dangerous and threatening. "Tell your little 'Temper Tantrum' what you've just told me about Aran. How he had planned for my arrival weeks in advance, and how it seems Imoen running into me has not been a happy coincidence. Please, don't be shy, I'd love to hear more details of your boss' clever plan." 

 

Hexxat rose from her chair and took a place beside Imoen. There was nowhere for Lathan to escape. Imoen let go of her friend, hoping he was just that. "Hey, don't look at me," he chuckled as he wiped his sweat-drenched forehead. "I didn't know the boss didn't tell you everything; you know as well as I do he does what he likes."

 

"I bet he liked making a fool out of you, Imoen," Anqi said with an air of triumph. There was a malicious glint in his eye, and despite her decision not to let his despicable demeanour get to her, she could feel a lump forming in her throat. "He's made a fool out of me too," he continued, never noticing her discomfort or, most likely, not caring. "But I'll deal with that on my own. How about you?"

 

Pursing her lips in defiance, she turned on her heel and stormed out of the bar. Her footsteps echoed in the long and empty corridor leading towards Aran's private chamber, and the wooden planks creaked as she crossed the bridge above the labyrinth of pipes the same way she had done tens of times before. But this time it was the pounding of her heart that sounded the loudest. 

 

 _’You've not been here long, but you are one of my best, Imoen. I know I can count on you to do the guild proud,’_ she remembered Aran telling her, his dashing smile wide on his clean-shaven, cheerful face.

 

_’Outstanding work! I couldn't have done it better myself.’_

 

_’Do I trust you? Why of course I do! You're a part of the family, Imoen, and you can trust me to never do you wrong.’_

 

With her fingertips sparking, she ignored the hooded assassin guarding the guild master's chamber and pounded on the door.

 

"It's Imoen. I need to talk to the boss!"

 

Anqi caught up to her before the locks on the other side scraped and Aran's aide opened the door. "You're early," said the skinny youth, eyeing her and her brother with suspicion.

 

"Out of the way, Haggith," she said and pushed past him. Aran was bent over the desk in the middle of the room, a thick ledger and a number of loose parchments spread out in front of him. Imoen felt a pang of guilt for interrupting his work.

 

"Imoen! Come in, come in, I was expecting you," Aran said without losing a beat, beaming at her in that roguish yet comforting way that always made her feel welcome. He was wearing nothing more than a loose black silk shirt and soft doeskin leather trousers, and the way his brown locks were tousled and his dark eyes twinkled merrily made her feel warm in the face. He left his desk to embrace her, a gesture she returned out of habit, but her arms were stiff around his narrow back. "Hexxat, formidable as always," he added and bowed his head to the vampire. 

 

"If all I needed to do to see you was to elbow my way in, I would've done so hours ago," Anqi grumbled as he walked inside.

 

"I was expecting you to, old friend, but I'm glad to see you've finally learned some patience," Aran said as he patted him on the back, and then ushered him to the rounded settee in the corner of the room where he usually admitted his personal guests. "Haggith, fetch us some wine and call Renal," he added. The aide darted out the door, while the guard from outside replaced him. Even in the heart of his own home, Aran always kept bodyguards about him. She couldn't blame him, really. After all, she stormed in here with less than peaceful intentions, and she could hardly be the first of his underlings he'd upset.

 

"Aren't you surprised to see him here?" she demanded, pointing at her brother.

 

Anqi leaned back and grinned, while her leader turned to face her, giving her his full attention. "I wouldn't be very good at my job if I were. Don't you think?"

 

She bit her lip, her confidence dwindling as her confusion grew. "So you did plan for us to run into him. But how's that possible?"

 

Aran's expression softened. "I'm sorry to say that it's true, my dear. I was already aware that Saemon Havarian had reunited with Anqi before sending you out on your quest. I'm also afraid that the debt he owes me doesn't exist." He sounded contrite, but the truth felt like a stab to Imoen's heart nonetheless. Who else had known about it? She glanced at Hexxat, suddenly alarmed, but her stony visage betrayed nothing. "Don't worry, our fanged friend wasn't in the know, I've made sure of that. It is only I who have betrayed your trust. Will you— _can_ you—forgive me?"

 

"But why?" She felt hot under her leather vest. _Where was Haggith with that wine?_

 

"To trick me into coming here," said Anqi. Imoen was about to tell her brother it wasn't all about him when Aran laughed.

 

"Sharp as usual, but I'm glad you've only seen through my plan after making it all the way to see me." He turned to Imoen. "I had a feeling your brother would dismiss my invitation, had I extended it directly, and I was afraid your familial bond would compel you to side with him. That's why I came up with the ruse."

 

"Fine, you've tricked me and now you have me here. What do you want?" Anqi asked with a grimace. Imoen noticed his hands were resting on his sword grips. She was sure Aran saw it too, but the guild master didn't seem to care. The door opened and Renal Bloodscalp entered, with Haggith trailing behind balancing a flagon and four copper cups on a tray. Upon noting the air of tension around Anqi, the guild's second-in-command reached for his dagger, but Aran waved him off.

 

"It's alright, Renal. Come now, Anqi, Imoen, let's drink to a successful reunion."

 

Haggith poured wine for all but Hexxat, but only the two thieves raised their cups. It did not seem to perturb Aran, as he sipped the wine and proceeded to explain his proposition to Anqi. Meanwhile, Imoen downed her drink and could do nothing more but to stare blankly at the red dregs remaining at the bottom of her cup. 

 

 _How could he think I'd fail my mission?_ she wondered, wounded. _Just because Anqi's my family... No, it's clear he wants nothing to do with me. If Aran had asked me to bring him back, I would've done it if I had to gag and drag him. Not even Dorn was able to oppose me. I would've done my job just fine, so why couldn't he trust me?_  

 

Hexxat's cold hand covered her clenched one and snapped her out of her thoughts. Imoen looked into her black eyes feeling lost just like when Anqi had left her alone in Athkatla, and just like then, looking at the gentle, wise and beautiful woman put her restless heart at ease. She turned her attention back to the two men she no longer felt she could trust.

 

"Wait, so you mean to tell me you’ve orchestrated _all_ this just so you could get my sword? That's ridiculous!” 

 

“What?" Imoen stared at Aran in shock. "Was that it? I could've stolen it."

 

"Not likely," Anqi almost snarled at her, then turned to the Shadowmaster. "Why go so far to trick me into making a trip? If you wanted the Fury so badly, why not send an assassin to kill me and take it?"

 

Aran sipped his wine. "You wound me. There's no need for hostilities; I cherish our friendship and would hate to see it soured."

 

"Hostility seems to be Anqi's go-to reaction these days—something he's learned from his oh-so-dear friend, Dorn," Imoen muttered and returned the glower her brother sent her. 

 

"Now, now, Imoen. No need to be rude," Aran chided gently. It made her neck grow hot. She pursed her lips and motioned for Haggith to refill her glass. "I'd like to offer an exchange: the Celestial Fury for Saemon Havarian’s life. What say you?”

 

 _Yes, obviously_ , Imoen thought, looking from one man to the other. If it was her, she wouldn’t give away even a rusted hairpin to help the pirate, but Anqi was different. He seemed bizarrely adamant to keep Saemon Havarian safe, and surely, one weapon was worth trading for a comrade’s life, no matter its value.

 

"No deal," Anqi announced in a flat voice and placed his still-full glass of wine on the table. Imoen almost dropped hers.

 

“What? But… It’s just one lousy sword!”

 

"Be quiet, Imoen," Anqi growled, doing his best Dorn impression, and watched Aran with frigid distrust. “Why do you want him in the first place?” he asked after a few beats. The Shadowmaster’s mouth quirked. _He’s pleased,_ Imoen realised, perplexed.

 

“Oh, I think you’re able to deduce a satisfactory answer on your own.”

 

“I won’t believe it’s just for revenge,” Anqi said, his eye transfixed on Aran’s. Imoen found herself gazing at her guild master as well. As much as she disliked agreeing with her brother about the Shadow Thieves, this wasn’t making any sense to her either.

 

“Oh? If you asked Renal, here, I’m sure he’d tell you he and several of our boys are quite fond of the idea of seeing Saemon’s head mounted on a spike in our dungeon. Not only has he tarnished our good name”—Anqi scoffed at that—”but has also personally swindled many of my men including Renal. I'm sure your swift refusal of my offer has made him very happy.” Imoen glanced at the guild’s second-in-command, but his usually expressive face remained unmoved save for a faint smirk.

 

“And you’re so eager to please Renal that instead of having Imoen or one of your other lackeys murder Havarian and bring back his head for your spike, you’ve got me instead.”

 

“And you’re being quite agreeable about the murder, indeed. For what is some pirate’s life worth if you get to keep your formidable blade? Surely, the man can’t mean that much to you if you’re not willing to part with just one out of your many, many swords.”

 

The exchange threw Imoen for a loop. For a moment she couldn’t tell what Anqi and Aran each wanted. One look at her brother told her he too was unnerved. “You won’t be able to confuse me. Tell me what you really want with him, then I…” He licked his lips and gripped his katana as if he was afraid it would fly out of its scabbard if he did not keep it there. “I will consider the trade.”

 

“You hear that, Aran? He will ‘consider’ it,” Renal chuckled darkly, but the Shadowmaster remained pleasantly expectant.

 

“Baby steps, my dear,” Aran said and took another sip of his wine, then spread his hands in mock surrender. “Since you’re such a good sport, friend, I feel you deserve to know a little more about our pirate. Imoen, you too are no doubt curious.” She had to stop herself from nodding eagerly and merely tipped her chin once. “However”—Aran addressed Anqi again, his voice light as if he were talking about the weather—“don’t come to me with complaints if the tale isn’t to your liking.” He paused to see if either she or Anqi would stop him, then he put away his empty glass. “The truth is that we would prefer Havarian delivered to us alive, rather than dead. We’ve been watching him, as I have already mentioned, and our man in Westgate had followed him to one of the several safe houses that belong to none other than the Night Masks.” Imoen’s eyes widened. The vampire-led thieves’ guild was a powerful organisation within Westgate, known for its ruthlessness and ambition of its leaders. If Saemon Havarian had joined them—

 

“Are you worried he will sell your secrets?” Anqi asked with a scoff. The news about the pirate didn’t seem to bother him at all. _Doesn’t he know who the Night Masks are?_ Imoen wondered.

 

“He has no secrets worth selling, at least not ones of my own," said Aran. "There are other things he may use as bargaining chips if he wished to join them, and I very much think he does. The Masks would protect him from us, and other individuals he had double-crossed. They would no doubt protect him from you, my friend, and your comrade Dorn, if you ever decided to exact your own revenge.”

 

Anqi glowered. “Why would he need to do that? He knows I mean him no harm,” he said finally. Renal laughed.

 

“Unless your sword’s on the table,” he said, a note of malice in his usually-amiable voice. Imoen could never quite see through the flamboyant, but often intense and intimidating acting commander. In a way, he was much more formidable than the true leader of the guild and often spoke in his stead. She remembered her first meeting with both men, and how embarrassed she had been when she mistook the black and red leather-clad, spiky-bearded and soft-spoken Renal for the guild's leader while dismissing his plainly-dressed and unremarkable counterpart as just another of his grunts. Just like now, it would be easy to take the subdued Aran as one of Renal’s underlings who was listening attentively to what his leader had to say. Imoen wondered if they rehearsed this schtick.

 

Anqi didn’t seem to care which of the two men he was addressing—he looked and sounded annoyed with both of them equally. “Forget about the sword,” he hissed.

 

“Alas, we cannot, for the Celestial Fury is the next part of the puzzle,” Aran said with a hint of melancholy as if this fact had somehow been weighing on his heart. Imoen had seen his use this tactic as much as the leader-swap technique he and Renal employed, and it always meant the Shadowmaster was going to try to bamboozle his opponent. She realised with disgust at herself, that she was hoping Anqi wouldn’t fall prey to his manipulation. _That’s not right_ , she chided herself—she should be rooting for Aran instead!

 

Her brother fumed in silence, then with one deliberate motion, unsheathed the katana in question and laid it in front of everyone, careful not to release his grip from the sword’s leather-bound hilt. Imoen had never seen the weapon this up close and was able to admire its undeniable beauty, taking in the exquisitely carved dragon’s maw on the pommel, the gorgeous pearls adorning the grip, and the pale violet hue of the inscriptions upon the gleaming, razor-sharp blade with rapt delight. “Speak,” Anqi prompted, his voice as cold and hard as stone.

 

Aran took a moment to lift his spellbound gaze from the sword, then gave an apologetic shrug. “Now I can see why you are so loath to part with it,” he said. Anqi remained unmoved by the nicety. “Right, so, as I’ve said, Havarian, who has been known as one of mine, is currently trying to worm his way into the Masks. The Masks, while capable of performing their own assassinations, have taken to patronising a band of assassins called the Fire Knives. Poisoners, the lot of them, love to mingle in high society and take out exceedingly difficult marks. The Knives, in turn, have clashed multiple times with a Shou group called the Nine Golden Swords. The Swords are based in Thesk, but they have been trying to build relationships with western guilds. As it so happens, the Shadow Thieves is one of those guilds, and I’ve been corresponding with their Golden Master for some time. So you see, it is quite an embarrassing conundrum.”

 

Imoen blinked, trying to get the Masks, the Knives and the Swords sorted in her head. Next to her, Hexxat was inspecting the tips of her pointed nails with an expression of utter disinterest. On her other side, Anqi was seething.

 

“Are you trying to mock me? What’s all that got to do with me and the sword?”

 

Aran, unperturbed, leaned back on the settee. “I was just getting to that. You see, the Nine Golden Swords originate from Kara-Tur and, as you can probably tell from their name, value the craftsmanship of the sword from their continent. Your Fury is one of the most famed of the Wa weapons to make it to Faerûn, and it just so happens, my Sword friends had been hoping to approach its owner about acquiring it. When the man had been alive, that is. You can imagine their disappointment when they learned their seller had been murdered and the sword stolen—”

 

“Koshi and his band had challenged us to a duel,” Anqi said, the tips of his ears red. “Ask Hexxat, she was there with me in their compound. I’ve won the sword fairly.”

 

Aran didn’t bother to confirm the tale with the vampire. “That is, unfortunately, not how they see it, and they are blaming me for allowing someone to have made off with it right from under my nose.”

 

Anqi went quiet, while Imoen fidgeted in her seat, her wine glass empty. “So you need Anqi to give you the weapon to make up for the fact that one of your former members is in cahoots with one of the enemies of the Swords,” Hexxat summarised as if to prompt the resolution of the discussion. Aran nodded graciously. “But on the other hand, if Anqi refuses to cooperate, you can always eliminate Saemon Havarian, which would also prove your faith to the Swords, not to mention show off your strength by taking down one of the Mask’s members.”

 

“Potential members, who have not yet gained the protection of the guild, but yes, that is the gist of it,” said Aran, then turned to await Anqi’s reply. The half-elf’s grip on the sword tightened, and he gave the Shadowmaster a terrible scowl.

 

“Either way I lose something dear to me,” he said through clenched teeth.

 

“Life’s full of tough choices, for all of us. I’m afraid my hands are tied, my friend,” Aran sighed.

 

A twisted smile spread on Anqi’s face. “A friend, am I? I wonder how much my friendship has been worth to you over the two years I’ve been away,” the half-elf said in a tone that was meant to resemble the Shadowmaster’s relaxed drawl. Renal chuckled under his nose, while Aran’s smile took on a stony quality. “You see, I've heard you've been throwing my name around to scare hapless merchants into thinking the big, bad Bhaalspawn will bring ruin upon the city. Frankly, I could care less about the rumours you've been spreading about me, but whatever they may have been, I think you owe me some royalties. That and a better deal, especially since your boasting has managed to bring bounty hunters sniffing around for me, right here 'under your nose'. I’ve disposed of the pests, but I had thought Aran Linvail’s city would have been safer for one of his _friends_."

 

 _Someone had tried to kill him? When?_ Imoen thought, suddenly more upset than when she heard of Aran's deception. There were no signs of struggle to be found on her brother's face or clothes, and while she suspected it could have been a bluff, her gut was telling her Anqi would not lie about being attacked. _But what do I really know about him anymore?_ she reflected with bitterness and quashed her worry. He wouldn't appreciate her concern anyway.

 

“He’s got you there,” Renal said, then had Haggith refill his and Aran’s cups and drained Aran’s straight away, while the Shadowmaster's face remained a mask. Imoen was hoping he would say something soon; this tension was starting to get to her. As if someone had popped a bubble, Aran Linvail burst out laughing.

 

“Aye, that he does,” he said, his face warm once more. Imoen couldn’t help but feel betrayed; Aran was always fair, but never this friendly with anyone save a handful of his most trusted subordinates, her included. Seeing him treat Anqi, who had cut all ties with the guild after he had no more use for them, the same way he treated Imoen, who had been working diligently for him for two years, felt a little unfair. She wasn't going to be jealous of her brother, of course, but it still stung. “So, now that you have me”—Aran said flirtatiously—”what shall you do with me?”

 

“Seeing as you’re the one more desperate to conclude this trade, with your people dragging me all this way just so we could have a chat, I would urge you to alter this deal if you want to take this sword unbloodied.” Aran quirked his brows to show he was listening. Anqi’s own thin brow was lowered over his eye in concentration. It was clear that it was her brother who had been at a great disadvantage from the start. After all, he was surrounded by four highly skilled members of the Shadow Thieves, and Haggith. And yet, he was acting as if it was he who would walk out of the room unscathed if the negotiations were to end in bloodshed. And Aran, who needed just to snap his fingers to have the sword pried from Anqi’s dead cold hands, seemed to indulge him in that fantasy. Imoen wanted to scream, but bit her lip instead and squeezed Hexxat’s cold hand to keep herself from strangling her arrogant brother. He continued his big talk unaware of her internal struggle. “How about this: you will have the sword _after_ my current business is concluded, whether I live and hand it over, or whether one of yours loots it off my body. I will swear on it or even sign some parchment with my blood if you wish it. You will then promise to let Havarian off _and_ tell your Nine Swords friends not to bother him. And also”—he slipped his hand into his bag, pulled out a small bundle and set it on the table in front of Aran, all under the watchful eyes of Renal, who had his hand clenched around his dagger—“provide me with all the information you can about this.”

 

They all eyed the little piece of cloth with suspicion. Hexxat was the first to react, her hand tensing as if she’d been exposed to fresh blood. Imoen regarded her with worry then turned back to the bundle—could it be...? Aran exchanged a glance with Renal, who then used his dagger to unfold the material to reveal a piece of skin. Imoen flinched.

 

"A tattoo? Really, Anqi, you could have just drawn or described it," Aran said with a slight grimace, then motioned for Renal to rewrap it. His second-in-command obeyed and tossed the disgusting bundle back to Anqi.

 

"I wanted to make a statement," he said and shoved the piece of skin into his magical bag. Hexxat’s body relaxed, but Imoen didn't like seeing her go through the ordeal. When Anqi was bleeding out after being stabbed, the hungry glint in her friend's face had scared her. She knew Hexxat would never hurt her, nor anyone she held dear, but it reminded her too much of the horrible dreams she used to have and the bloodthirsty monster that stalked her in the darkness. The beast had not troubled her for the last two years, but she would never forget the fear that would follow her into the waking hours whenever it had haunted her at night. She scooched closer to her friend and offered her a smile and was glad to receive one in return. "So," her brother prompted Aran, continuing to guard the magical katana. "Can you tell me what sort of filth has been running around your city and trying to ambush your friend?"

 

"The worst kind, I'm afraid," Aran said with a sigh, then took a final gulp of his wine. Haggith moved to refill his glass, but the Shadowmaster dismissed him with a wave. "She calls herself Mercy Whitedove. Tasteless, in my humble opinion, given what she is known for. My men from the north tell me she's been wandering around the Sword Coast since a few years back, parading her innocuous symbol while nabbing runaway petty thieves, rapers, highwaymen and that sort, and performing public hangings. She fashions herself a jurist, you see, and it seems the local knight orders and the lords are buying into her fight-against-evil schtick. Lately, I've heard rumours of her departure south, but after that, her bloody trail disappears. And you may think I'm exaggerating, but do not be deceived, my friend. She is a beast who hides her true face under the guise of a white dove you have tattooed there, and once she has set sights on her prey, there will be _no mercy_ for them. I'm afraid you are in deep trouble. But perhaps, we can make a deal?"

 

Aran grinned, but Anqi was no longer looking at him. For the second time in her life, Imoen witnessed her brother's confident facade crumble. The fear in his eye and the way he blanched and his lip quivered made her relive the awful moment when she saw him crying and begging Gorion not to send him to the dungeon. Just like then, she wanted to ask her father-figure not to make him suffer, but what could her denying the truth do now? Aran's intel was trustworthy, which meant someone very dangerous was after Anqi's life. But just like his sudden change in behaviour had surprised her after Gorion's punishment was over, so did Anqi's next decision.

 

His hand shaking, he let go of his beloved katana and whispered, "It's not just me she wants. It's Dorn."

  


***

  


Bells rang thrice in the distance as Dorn and Erthas drew closer to the Karassar estate. The wide streets of the Merchant District lent themselves poorly to stealth, and the half-orc was keenly aware of the bewildered stares and the loud muttering of disapproval of its rich denizens. Led by a gaudy, masked man and wearing only a tattered pair of trousers, he looked more like some escaped freak being escorted back to the circus than a proud warrior. He ignored the gawking passersby, mostly, giving the nearest few perfumed elves a stare that could curdle milk, and continued to walk in spiteful silence, focusing all his anger on the man he was planning to murder.

 

His bloody thoughts were interrupted when a pair of city guards decked in gold approached them about their supposed disturbance of the peace. The drow was quick to pacify them by waving a parchment with the Karassar seal in front of their faces and explaining that Dorn was a guest of the merchant.

 

Throwing them the dirtiest of looks, the guards wished them a pleasant day and excused themselves. Erthas shoved the parchment back into his belt under his cloak, and Dorn could feel his gaze on him. "Did you see that? That's the power you're up against. Are you sure you want to take it on?"

 

The half-orc frowned. "I'm no sneak like you or the half-elf. When I see a challenge, I take it head-on and overcome it."

 

"With what? A knife and a sword?" Erthas scoffed. "And even if you were somehow able to kill the _pasha_ in his home, all the Nine Hells will be waiting for you afterwards. You and your friend will live the rest of your days hounded by knights and bounty hunters the Karassar family will seek on you. Is that the kind of life you envision for the two of you?"

 

"That is of no concern to you," Dorn growled and picked up the pace. The golden roof of Jazim's mansion was just around the corner and he was growing tiresome of the drow's cowardice. "All you want is for the brat to die. I'll gladly take care of the dirty work if it means you will disappear along with it."

 

"You are being rash," Erthas spat, but before more nonsense could tumble from his lips, another hooded man jumped off the wall ahead of them. Dorn froze—he had been looking ahead all along and he did not see the figure before it materialised out of thin air. He reached for his scimitar, but the drow approached the newcomer and pulled his head down to his. There was a _clack_ where their masks met in a briefest of touches and Dorn recognised the four vertical slits carved in the dark blue wood. "Durzen," the drow said with relief. His brother remained silent and made a few quick hand gestures. Dorn was unable to decipher some of the swift motions of the Drow Sign, but he got the gist of the message: Karassar had increased the guard and has withdrawn deep into his vast mansion. The taller drow noticed him looking and scoffing behind his mask, added a few choice motions. This too Dorn understood only partially, but the attitude of the drow was as clear as day. His hand remained on his sword's hilt as he approached the brothers.

 

"If you have something to say about my heritage, I invite you to say it out loud. I like to hear it when fools choke on their impotent insults as I squeeze the cleverness right out of their windpipes," he said, bearing his teeth down on Durzen. Erthas slipped between the two with cat-like speed and tore his mask off to show Dorn his furious scowl. In his other hand shone a black-bladed dagger.

 

"Lay a hand on him and you'll not last long enough to see your friend again," Erthas hissed, poised to make good on his promise, but his brother laid a hand on his shoulder. He signed to him, then to Dorn. Erthas stared wide-eyed.

 

"But Durzen, you didn't need to tell him that you're—" the older of the two tried to argue, but Durzen shook his head.

 

"Shame your brother hadn't suffered the same fate," Dorn told the taller of the two. Durzen signed a rude response and then grasped his brother's arm. After a moment's hesitation, Erthas withdrew his blade. 

 

"I'll let you off only because of the deal we've made with Anqi. Were it not for him, you would be dead."

 

Dorn scoffed and said in a low voice. "It's the lordling who will be dead." He did not wait for a response and made his way past the drows.

 

"Such irresponsible behaviour will only get you hurt," warned Erthas. He sounded harsh and serious. "We were asked to find you, and we did, but if you choose to forfeit your life we'll be sure to tell your friend about it. I'm sure the scars you've left him will be enough for him to remember you by." 

 

 _So be it_ , Dorn thought as he rounded the corner and left the pair behind. He would meet up with them later—Jazim did not want the drows prowling his estate and had instructed his guards to turn the two away, Erthas had explained. The dark elf had said a lot during their trek across town—it was clear he loved the sound of his voice. Dorn had filtered most of the babble, but his last words stayed with him. _Arrogant bastard, just like his surface leaf licker cousins_ , he thought, irritated at the very idea that someone who had lived over a century and had more time ahead of him could understand the half-orc's haste. Dorn had already wasted too much time chasing after Anqi's magical trinkets instead of taking their fate in his own hands and guiding them where the real glory awaited. He wasn't going to spend another minute listening to idle fools too weak to fight for their ambition. "Rash," he repeated with disdain as he continued towards the gate of the mansion. _If that's what it'll take to correct Anqi's mistakes, then that’s what I’ll do._

 

Yet before he could begin rashly unravelling his current predicament, another complication awaited him at the entrance of Jazim's estate. In front of the gilded gate, he saw seven men, four of them Karassar guards, who were squabbling in loud and heated voices. As he came closer, Dorn heard one he recognised and saw the familiar coiffed blond hair jerking back and forth from the other side of the gate.

 

"Havarian!" he barked and ignored the wary glares he got from both the strangers and the sentries. He, in turn, was surprised by the pirate's ecstatic smile, which fell when the pirate saw his state of undress.

 

"Dorn! What happened to your clothes? No, nevermind that. Please ask these good _gentlemen_ to admit our new crewmen whom I _simply_ had wished to introduce to our gracious host," Saemon Havarian insisted from within the estate's grounds. He was barred from exiting by one of the guard's golden spear. Dorn noted Imoen's thieves shadowing the pirate and another pair of guards stationed within, then turned his eyes towards the supposed new crew members. The three men looked hard and wild and made a motley group. The most striking of them was a tall, muscle-bound Chultan with a cleft chin and a broad, hairless chest that bore the three lightning bolts of Talos tattooed in vivid blue ink. Dorn could tell he was a seasoned warrior from a glance, yet he could not see a weapon anywhere on his person. Next to him was a keg-bellied Chondathan, pockmarked and breathing heavily as he clutched the hilt of his club, his beady, brown eyes boring into the closest guard with intense dislike. Behind the two, a slight and shifty-eyed Illuskan stepped from one foot to another. He was no older than what Anqi looked like, and was jerking his head and licking his lips every few seconds. On the other side, the two guards he recognised from before and the two new ones looked between themselves with overflowing enmity for the newcomers. 

 

"I've told you, _Pasha_ is _not_ admitting anyone at this time. Tell your clowns to bugger off to some inn and get sloshed and don't bother coming back," the young, blonde sentry who had given Dorn the stink-eye a few days before told Havarian. The half-orc didn't care much about helping the pirate, but the bigoted scum was being a nuisance.

 

"Out of the way, boy. Let these men inside," he told the guard and made to go past him, but he and his comrade blocked the way with their spears.

 

"I'm afraid I can't do that, sir," the blonde hissed, emphasizing the title of which he didn't seem to think Dorn was worthy.

 

" _Pasha_ Jazim has given us direct orders not to allow anyone inside with a few exceptions. You, ah, master Il-Khan, are among them, but I'm afraid these, ah, companions of yours aren't permitted," the one-eyed guard explained, looking Dorn up and down with a grimace.

 

"Oh, but that's just a simple misunderstanding," Havarian interjected and waved towards the trio to approach. "We've arranged for _master_ Il-Khan to introduce them, haven't we? And if the good _Pasha_ is busy, we'll make sure not to let them wander around. What do you say, friend?" Havarian beamed and laid a friendly arm on the young guard's shoulder.

 

"You forget your place, you filthy pirate! You're a prisoner, so get back inside before I drag you over there myself!" The blonde shoved Havarian into his escort and lowered his spear. The trio outside moved to interfere but the one-eyed guard blocked their path with a determined scowl while his two comrades flanked the pirates. Judging by the calm stance of the bare-fisted warrior, Dorn reckoned both groups had similar chances of winning, but he had no time to be caught in the middle of a bloody squabble. He stepped between the pirates and the gate guard and bid him let him through. The one-eyed guard admitted him with a curt nod. Noticing his comrade's action, the blonde sentry clicked his tongue and raised his spear, but not before sending Dorn another glare. The half-orc made a note to pluck the insolent blue eyes out of his head on his way back.

 

"Seems all I've heard of Turami hospitality was just hearsay," Havarian said lightly as he straightened and brushed himself off, the heavy silver bangles gleaming on his wrists. "'Twould be a shame if your master heard of the disdainful way his _guest_ —not prisoner—has been treated. Such shameful behaviour would surely reflect poorly on his household, and Saemon Havarian's tales spread far and quickly."

 

"Then perhaps I should cut out your tongue," hissed the blonde and reached for the sword on his hip.

 

"Theren, that's enough!" the one-eyed guard said with scorn. He was more concerned with keeping the peace than throwing insults; two of the pirates had already unsheathed their weapons, while the tall Calishite cracked his knuckles and assumed a martial arts stance. On the other side of the gate, one of the Shadow Thieves slipped his two daggers out and stepped in front of Havarian, trapping Dorn in the middle of the standoff. For a moment, it looked like bloodshed was inevitable.

 

"Ladies, ladies! This ain't the time to be making a fuss!" Karassar's old and scarred Rashemi underling emerged from the gardens and sauntered up to the group. His leathery face bore a lazy smile which looked as if it was chiselled in his flesh, resembling the drows' masks—a smirking visage that was asking to be wiped off by a fist. "Theren, m'boy! You're going to give yourself indigestion if you keep clenching up like that. Let ol' Briggsy help you out, hm?"

 

The guard scoffed but removed his hand from his weapon. "I wasn't aware you were inside," he said, giving the Rashemi a suspicious glance.

 

"Nor are you about many other things, I'm sure, but don't let that distract you from your duty of keeping the riff-raff out. It seems we could use a little more effort from you in that department, eh?" Brigov threw Dorn a measured look, then, apparently satisfied with whatever he saw, proceeded to insert himself in the middle of the gathering like he owned the place. The guards let him through to the street, where he extended his hand to the trio of pirates, careless of their drawn weapons. "Briggsy's the name, gentlemen. Like yourselves, a part of _Pasha_ Jazim and mister Anqi's new and exciting venture." The three looked to one another and then to Havarian, who gave a quick nod. The portly Chondathan then put away his club and grasped Brigov's hand.

 

"Den," the pirate said in a guttural voice that suggested speaking cost him a great deal of effort. "This is Vaago Nandu"—he pointed to the muscular Chultan—"and Lippy." The small, pale man jerked his head and grimaced, showing his yellow teeth.

 

"Right on," Brigov exclaimed and then turned to Dorn and Havarian. "Our lordling's rather preoccupied at the moment and the entire place is in a bit of a state, I'm afraid. Why don't I take these boys down to the _Lusty Bride_ to quench their thirsts and let them know the rest of the crew? I'm as good as Jazim for that sort of thing and I'll be glad to tell them the whos and the whats of our venture. You can join us after you've dressed if you wish," he said, smirking at Dorn. "Although I'm surprised you even have that much on after the mage girl had set your hide on fire." He chuckled.

 

Dorn glowered at the old man's gall. "After I'm done here there will no longer be a venture to speak of, so don't waste your time," he said, and before Brigov's surprised expression transformed into words, he pushed his way past Havarian and his thief escort and left the gathering of buffoons behind.

 

As he made his way to the manse, Dorn soon realised Durzen's report had been true and the number of guards had been increased within the gardens as well as at the gates. When before servants and greenskeepers were lurking among the shrubbery, it was the gilded eagle helmets and cream-coloured capes he saw now on the winding pathways on both sides of the main trail. Usually, in pairs or threes, they were stalking the jungle-like thicket like gigantic, bright birds. Dorn counted fifteen by the time Havarian caught up to him underneath a cluster of great palm leaves forming a natural archway, halfway up the path.

 

"Hold on a moment! Dorn!" The pirate wheezed as he attempted to block off the half-orc's way. Dorn refused to stop, so he sighed dramatically and strained to keep up with him as he walked. "I understand you're most likely keen on making yourself more presentable before you see Anqi, but I'm going to have to disappoint you."

 

"I know he's not around," Dorn said brusquely.

 

That didn't discourage Havarian from talking. "Oh, well. That's one issue addressed, then. But do you mind clearing up something for me here—I'm afraid I must've heard it wrong. What is this about our venture ending when you're 'done here'?"

 

Dorn regarded him with dislike he reserved for bootlickers, rats and other scum of that sort. "Anqi's plan is no longer in effect. I'm taking over."

 

Havarian's eyes almost popped out of his head and it had nothing to do with the bejewelled collar digging into his neck. Taking his stunned silence as the end of the discussion, Dorn turned away, but the pirate caught him by the shoulder. "With all due respect but have you gone mad!?"

 

"Watch your tongue, pirate. I'm past tolerating your involvement with the half-elf despite my warning never to approach us again. There is very little that's stopping me from ending your life here and now, so I suggest you keep your opinions to yourself if you want to keep breathing." There was a hint of defiance in the faces of Havarian's young bodyguards. Havarian himself snorted, yet his mouth did not open until they reached the griffon fountain. There were even more guards stationed around the mansion's entrance, but apart from some curious or disapproving glances, Dorn was allowed to proceed unhindered. 

 

"Isn't it curious how, after nearly turning your dear husband into a boiling bloodstain in the heart of a grand metropolis such as this, and then returning to the home of your beloved's generous benefactor, you've yet to be harassed by many of his, clearly, well-armed soldiers?" Dorn scowled at the pirate's smug grin, while his escorts exchanged astonished glances.

 

It was true. Dorn had expected the merchant to send his men after him to show off in front of Anqi. The fact that the half-elf was currently away could explain why Jazim did not bother to flaunt his influence without an audience, but he found the curt hospitality strange nonetheless. "I'm sure you're just dying to enlighten me, but don't bother. I am not in the mood," Dorn said as he climbed the stairs and barked his name to the guards posted at the door, which they threw open with stiff bows.

 

Inside, the air was hot and clammy and filled with the smell of bodies stewing inside their armour. The unfortunate guards were posted at the mouth of each corridor and the bottom of both staircases. Whatever the reason for the augmented security was, it dismayed him to accept that he might be forced to postpone his plan of cutting Jazim down, or worse, to drop it altogether. He disliked the idea of leaving the overstepping lordling alive, but he did not intend to linger in the city after he was reunited with his wayward rogue.

 

"What's all this?" he asked the pirate, but Havarian shrugged.

 

"I'm as lost as you, I'm afraid. A few hours ago, I was lounging in one of the sitting rooms, when a guard burst in and escorted me out here. That was when I last saw Jazim. Told me to make sure I stayed in the gardens—as if I had any chance of leaving with these two dogging my every step," he said as he motioned to the thieves. "Then he took a dozen men with him and disappeared upstairs."

 

"Allow me to explain," said a tan-skinned girl who appeared in the mouth of one of the corridors. She was wearing a dark purple dress, so unlike the strips of cloth the rest of the servants were made to wear, and judging by her upturned nose, seemed to think it made her that much better.

 

"Ah, Ingwe, I was hoping to see you sooner," Havarian said with a wide smile, which the girl returned only partially. Dorn scowled at yet another distraction, but the pirate ignored his displeasure and stepped between him and the servant. "Dorn, I don't think you've had the pleasure; this lovely lady is our host's most gracious steward. Ingwe, I believe you've at least heard of my comrade, yes?"

 

The girl's dark eyes fleeted up to Dorn's face, then withdrew just as quickly. An expression he knew well flashed across her comely features, as she squinted her eyes in a genial smile. It was unmistakably disgust. "Regretfully, I was unable to attend the initial feast so we haven't officially met, but I have heard about everything that has happened since. It is a great honour to finally meet you, _rafayam_ ." Dorn ignored her, but it didn't seem to trouble the girl in the slightest. She turned her attention back to Havarian and folded her hands together in front of her long skirt. "As for the current unpleasant situation in the household, there has been a rider with disturbing news and _Pasha_ was forced to attend to it most urgently. He prays you can forgive his rudeness; he will be with you as soon as he is done."

 

"Disturbing enough to summon a small army around himself, it would seem. Perhaps we can be of assistance?" Havarian cocked his head, letting his hair flop over his eye in a way that was supposed to attract female attention. Dorn couldn't see any charm to it, and it didn't seem to impress Ingwe.

 

"You are too kind to offer, but it is a matter of business, and _Pasha_ wouldn't wish to betray the confidence of any of his other partners," she said, contrite, and bowed her head low. Havarian shrugged with dismay. "If _rafayami_ wish to repose, I will arrange for refreshments to be brought to the Flower Lounge."

 

"No," Dorn cut in. "I need to find my equipment."

 

The young steward's gaze never drifted from his face to his half-naked body as if even the tiniest of glances would burn her eyes. "As you wish, _rafayam_. Elli!"

 

Emerging from the corridor opposite Ingwe, the young serving boy approached Dorn. He was frightened but he led the way to the green room where he and Anqi had spent the night together without delay and disappeared as soon as his duty was done. The same could not be said of Havarian, who was intent on clinging to him like stink to a pig. At least he no longer sounded chipper.

 

"Things aren't looking so good," the pirate surmised. Dorn refused to acknowledge the banal comment and instead focused on finding his belongings. As it turned out, everything was waiting for him lined up by the bed. Most importantly, his sword had been picked up from when he'd dropped it. He reached for it first and felt the reassuring weight and the malevolent aura exuding from its prisoners. Dorn could sense rather than hear their whispers; Havarian was still not done complaining and he was being very loud. "First that sly witch wrecks our ship and manages to sneak up on me with these dreadful bangles"—the pirate shook his wrists—"then you two insist on having a lover's spat over some old misunderstanding. He almost dies, you disappear for days, and now Jazim is hiding in his bedroom for gods know what reason. And then you stroll back, as if nothing's happened, and say you want to blow the damn venture I've been working so hard to set up all to Hells. It's like the gods are punishing me by forcing me to work with dreadful associates."

 

"Maybe you shouldn't have betrayed Aran Linvail, then," said one of the thieves, a glint of triumph in his slanted, black eyes.

 

"Shadows don't speak," Havarian snapped at him, then turned to Dorn. "The Bitch Queen take you!" he spat and scrambled to cover his eyes. "Warn a man before he's forced to see things not meant for him. I'm not as keen on exotic sights as Anqi."

 

Paying the other man's discomfort at seeing him naked no mind, Dorn pulled on a fresh pair of thick, black breeches and a tough, cotton tunic the colour of a dusky sky. He found his bag of holding and produced the set of armour Anqi had dissuaded him from using due to the heat. _Pathetic_ , he scolded himself as he donned each piece with practised deftness. _To think such a triviality had swayed me this easily. It was all Anqi's fault_ , he thought, wanting to believe it desperately. Yet deep down he knew it was his own weakness that had led him to become so willing to follow the rogue's suggestions and bend to his whims.

 

"I'm sure you've spent plenty of _minutes_ devising the downfall of Anqi's ambitions, but if you only stopped for a moment to think about the consequences of your actions, you would see how utterly irrational you're being," Havarian droned on as he reclined in the armchair by the arches, his shadows following him to either side. "All the planning and effort both me and Anqi had put into buttering up the young master, not to mention the peril in which I've put myself just to find you trustworthy hands to man your ship—and you're going to just toss it all away! And for what? To get back at Anqi? I had thought he meant more to you after what you'd done for him in Innarlith, but perhaps it was nothing more than a passing folly on your part, or some sort of obligation to him your orcish honour required you to fulfil. I wouldn't be surprised it was something like that—you two are queer people on your own and even queerer together. It only strikes me now that perhaps you even might be crazy."

 

Dorn gave his tangled hair several tugs with his fingers and pulled it into a loose ponytail, then secured it with a thin leather strap. "I had been crazy to follow the half-elf's whims for this long. And so have you," he said.

 

Havarian clicked his tongue. "And, pray, where would you be if you had not taken leave of your senses? Butchering clergymen for fun?"

 

"Baldur's Gate has one too many Dukes who still draw breath. And I owe a certain queen a visit. It is considered impolite to make royalty wait, I hear," Dorn said with a dark smirk, imagining what it would feel like to slay the monarch of Tethyr in her throne room. He was certain it would be better than being made a fool out of by a slimy spicemonger.

 

"A queen!? Queen Zaranda, you mean?" Havarian snorted, then jumped to his feet, his face red. Dorn didn't know whether it was from laughter or anger. "Perhaps the witch's Dragon's Breath had scorched some part in your brain because not even an utter fool would think someone like you could accomplish such an impossible feat on your own. And I don't see Anqi ever agreeing to help you kill yourself like that. He is much too reasonable."

 

Dorn crossed the distance between them in two quick strides and closed his fingers around Havarian's neck. His babysitters pointed their blades at him, trying to hide their surprise behind unconvincing scowls, but he disregarded their empty threats. "Don't think you know anything just because I'd allowed you to see us at a vulnerable point. That was in the past. From now on things will be different, and you will no longer be a part of Anqi's life. As soon as he returns, I will take him back to the Sword Coast and your fate will no longer be of our concern. I've paid my debt to you when I chose to disregard your past treachery, so consider this warning the last courtesy you will ever get from me." He let go of the now-purple neck. The pirate gasped and massaged his skin, throwing obscenities his way as he slumped back to his chair.

 

"There will be consequences," he managed to say, his voice raspy and breathless. 

 

"Oh, I'm counting on them," Dorn replied and turned back to the bed where he had put the items he had stolen on his way to the city. The black pin was among them, and he regarded it with the same disdain as he'd done Havarian just moments ago.

 

There came a soft knock on the door. Dorn ignored it at first, but when it grew more insistent, he strode towards it and flung it open to chase the pest away.

 

"Forgive me, _rafayam_ ," squeaked a startled voice. He looked down.

 

It was a pest indeed, but as much as she trembled and avoided looking at him, the serving girl did not flee. "What is it? I did not send for anyone," Dorn growled baring his tusks. The servant forced herself to stop shaking and drew her breath in nervously.

 

"It's about _rafayam_. I mean, about Anqi," she said in a small voice and at last found the courage to look up. It had taken him only a second to realise she was whispering on purpose and another to remember her from a few nights ago. Her mismatched irises were as strange as the first time he'd laid eyes on her, but the bruise on her cheek had turned a dark yellow and already started to fade. He pulled her inside with a quick yank on her arm and slammed the door behind.

 

"Speak," he ordered.

 

"I..." she hesitated, then glanced past him to Havarian, as if trying to summon him for help. Dorn wondered if the pirate knew who she was, but decided it did not make a difference. He loomed over the girl.

 

"I will not repeat myself, so say your piece or leave."

 

"What is this now?" Havarian grumbled, then clicked his tongue when he saw her. "A servant? We're in the middle of something, child. Tell your master we're fine for now."

 

The girl looked at Dorn with desperation, her apparent fear of him taking away her ability to speak. _A waste of time_ , he thought and grabbed her by the shoulder to throw her out. She dug her hand into her pocket. Instinct took over, and before she could pull out a concealed weapon, Dorn's fist closed around her skinny wrist. She shrieked in pain as he wrenched her arm up, forcing her tiny hand to open and release the item within. But it was no dagger that fell on the plush carpet but a tiny, black and yellow pin in the shape of a bee.

 

"Where did you get this?" he barked at her before the obvious answer came to mind. He released her to allow her to speak, rather than bawl her eyes out in pain.

 

"It was a g-gift," she stuttered, clutching her arm to her chest. She had tears in her eyes, but she brushed them away with the palm of her uninjured hand. "From _rafayam_ —from Anqi. He was kind to me so I wanted to repay him, in whatever small way I can."

 

Havarian scoffed from his chair, entertained by the notion of the half-elf's kindness. Dorn was less amused as he scowled at the girl's wide and, he decided after a moment, genuine eyes. _Another fool he's managed to deceive._ "Repay him when he's back, then, if you're so eager to be swayed by his trinkets and charms."

 

She bit her lip and glanced back at the door. But then something in her posture changed, a determination coming from somewhere previously unseen and possibly even unknown to the girl herself. Her small fists clenched and she looked him in the eye. "It might be too late by then," she said, more confident than before. "I heard _Pasha_ and master Brigov talking about him when I brought them refreshments. _Pasha_ looked nervous and said: 'I'll take Anqi away before she gets here.' He then said he wasn't going to let anyone ruin his plans, not even 'the half-orc or the bird-bitch'. I don't know what they said after I left, there were so many guards all around I was afraid to stay any longer."

 

 _That conniving snake_ , Dorn thought, enraged. 

 

"A 'bird-bitch', was it?" Havarian rose from his chair and approached the girl. She looked at him uneasily. "Have you any notion of who that might refer to?"

 

"No, _rafayam_. I'm sorry," she squeaked once again and bit her lip. "You won't let anything happen to Anqi, will you?"

 

"Not any more than he already deserves," Dorn said darkly and returned to the bed to pick up the rest of his belongings. He weighed the bird pin in his hand for a moment before he put it into his belt pouch. "Your presumptuous master, however, is another story."

 

"Haven't you been listening? There are guards all around him—you'll never make it," Havarian sighed.

 

"You underestimate the scope of my fury."

 

"The only thing I've underestimated is the scope of your sanity, my friend. You'll be dead before you can draw your sword, by the sound of it. And if what the rest of what the girl says is true, it would be prudent to let whatever the merchant is afraid of to preoccupy him while we intercept Anqi and withdraw."

 

"You weren't keen on my plan just a moment ago," Dorn said with derision. Havarian looked at him with open dislike, for once not hiding behind polite smiles.

 

"Have your little victory, damn you. But I'll only go along with this so far as to wait for Anqi's return away from this place. As soon as he's back I'll make sure he knows what insanity has been brewing inside that thick skull of yours." The two shadows moved up behind the pirate as if to say they were going to back him up on his quest. It seemed everyone was against Dorn, but that was neither a surprise nor a problem; he'd learned years ago it was best to plough straight through to his goals with little to no regard for malcontents. His eyes rested on the girl who regarded him with hopeful apprehension. He almost pitied her for being so easily swayed by the half-elf's petty courtesies and meaningless gifts, but then he recalled his own naivete, and the pity turned to anger. He picked up the black and yellow pin from the carpet and watched the little servant's eyes light up.

 

"You best forget about that thief, girl," he said and closed his armoured fist around the trinket. The delicate ornament crunched, and its fragments spilt onto the carpet. Seeing her cover her mouth in a soundless protest gave him no satisfaction. "The man is a snake capable of no love but for himself."

 

"That's not true!" she nearly shouted, her pale face reddening from either fury or embarrassment at her outburst. "When Anqi woke up, he wanted to find you right away. He was hurt all over, but he went to look for you despite that. He was even rude to _Pasha_ and got into a fight with _rafayam_ Imoen over it. He cares for you!"

 

Dorn watched her courage dwindle under his harsh scrutiny, but the truth behind her heated words reached him, clammy and uncomfortable under his skin. He grasped the girl's wrist, firm but gentle, and placed in it his own gift. When he closed her fingers around it and withdrew, she flinched at the sight of the halfling's dagger but did not drop it. "I take it you've attended to Anqi's wounds so you've seen what kind of damage this weapon can cause. If you wish to live, this will prove more useful than a trinket that can potentially get you accused of theft." She stared at him in horror and disbelief.

 

"But I never—I didn't—!"

 

"Just think: who would believe someone would give a servant like you anything as precious as the pin? You may think he's your saviour, but his 'care' often leaves his supposed friends disappointed, hurt or dead."

 

With that, he turned away from the girl and went for the door. Havarian followed, still sulking in silence, and with him came his shadows. Outside, Dorn spotted Ingwe, who was approaching their door with Elli trailing after her. She smiled amiably, but her expression grew stern when she spotted the girl exiting after them. "I beg your forgiveness, _rafayami_ ," she said as she motioned for the servant to join her side with an impatient gesture. "It would seem Mia has forgotten her place and bothered you needlessly. I shall have her punished accordingly."

 

The little blonde flinched. Ingwe's cold voice reminded Dorn of the frigid words his tribesmen used to fling his way every time they dragged his bruised and battered body to the healer's tent. 'The half-man thinks he can be strong like us,' he remembered orcs his age or younger taunting him after they had overpowered him during training. 'You forget your place, Runt. Go back to your pasty mother and don't show your face around here if you know what's good for you!' But he always came back more determined to prove his worth. His blood boiled at the memory, and he caught the arrogant steward by the arm. "Try it, and I will cut you where you stand," he growled. Her jaw dropped open, too stunned to reply. Dorn released her with a shove, then ordered the serving boy to guide them back to the door before Ingwe regained her senses. The boy must have sensed the tension and hurried away from his superior, and within minutes they were in the lobby.

 

"That wasn't wise, taunting the girl like that. She will relay it to her master," Havarian said without much force, sounding tired and fed up with the turn of events. "And Anqi's little friend might still get what's coming to her."

 

"She can defend herself now," Dorn said, unconcerned.

 

"Ah, yes, leaving a corpse of the majordomo on the plush carpet would be a splendid strategy. Why, you should've invited her to come along; she's taken to Anqi already, and they say nothing mends a relationship like a child."

 

The mockery irked Dorn, but only a little. He was already furious about having to postpone his vengeance on the pampered merchant, and the jape was nothing more than the pirate's tongue wagging out of his own frustration. He would punish him after his plan was already in motion, and the first step was leaving the mansion and its master far behind.

 

Yet as if to spite him, chance would have it that the man appeared on the upper floor of the lobby surrounded by half a dozen fully armed guards. His hair was dishevelled and there was a nervous look to his motions, but when he spotted Dorn's party at his door, he called out to him in a commanding voice, showing off his perfect teeth in his arrogant grin. "So, my dear Anqi's would-be killer is back in my home. You look better than I had expected after the fiery lesson miss Imoen had said she'd taught you. Oh, but pray, forgive me, I've got urgent matters to attend to and won't be able to enjoy your company for a while longer. Perhaps you can entertain yourselves somewhere in town while I finish work. Afterwards, we can wait for Anqi together."

 

"It's quite alright, Master Jazim," Havarian replied first, amicable both in tone and expression. "We were just about to head out to the harbour. I'd love to see all the festivities, under the ever-watchful guard of my dear Shadow Thief friends, of course."

 

Jazim allowed it with a dismissive wave of his hand. All his attention was on Dorn, measuring him with his hooded, envious eyes. _Desire him all you want, spicemonger, I'll sooner die than see you wrap your slimy fingers around the bloody half-elf._ "You'd do well to abandon your vigil. It won't do you any good, no matter how long you wait," he said, suddenly possessive.

 

A cold sneer replaced the merchant's smile. "And why is that, pray tell? Because he has you?" Jazim's scorn was plain on his face. "I'm sure you'd like to see him crawl back to you, but it is me he'll choose in the end. Unlike you, I don't intend to welcome him with another blade to his belly."

 

 _Just a blade to his back_ , Dorn thought, trying to hold back with all his might. The six guards upstairs, the five at the mouths of the corridors and the two just outside the door he could cut down with little trouble, but there was no knowing how many more would flock to their master's side. Before he could deal with them, and if he came out of it unscathed, Jazim would have escaped into his labyrinthian mansion and chasing after him could prove dangerous. No, he would not attack now. Perhaps the merchant was counting on it, certain that he could taunt the half-orc into his doom. He would like it if Dorn were dead, no doubt, but if the ignorant lordling thought Anqi would then believe in whatever tale he'd spurn about his demise to lure him into his arms, he was sadly mistaken. He almost wished he could see this scenario play out only to have the enraged half-elf slit the merchant's throat open himself. Smiling, he tipped his head and spun on his heel, leaving the young master to seethe in his inadequacy.

 

They were past the gates of the Merchant District and back among the crowds when Havarian's mouth inevitably opened again. "That's only the second time I've seen you so... territorial," he said, his words dripping in sarcasm. "Tell me, if you hate what Anqi's been doing so much, why not leave him? As his friend and your acquaintance, I know you've been through a lot, but it's painfully obvious to me that you're not good for each other. Wouldn't it be wiser to go your separate ways before one of you ends up dead for good this time?"

 

"And wouldn't you like that?" Dorn grunted in reply, pushing past a thickening sea of people. He towered over most of them, but despite being able to see over their heads, he could not find a path that was not filled to the brim by sweaty peddlers, half-naked revellers and stern-faced guards.

 

"What I would like to know is whether my business partner is going to be eviscerated by his lover whenever said lover was feeling temperamental," Havarian admitted dryly. "It's not like this was the first time he's done something foolish that's affected you, is it? I don't see why you were compelled to overreact this badly."

 

"Yes, but he hadn’t betrayed me back then. Now drop it," Dorn snapped, unwilling to dwell on the disaster of Innarlith and the shame of it all. Yet, Havarian was determined to make some sort of a point and droned on.

 

"Well, he did so now—stabbed you in the back. Dreadful. But then you stabbed him in the front. You should be even, right? So how about you stab him in the ass the way you both like, make peace, and be done with all this foolishness."

 

Dorn turned around to strangle Havarian, but they were separated by a river of people and one of the Shadow Thieves, a look of discomfort plastered on his dusky face. "Last warning, pirate," Dorn growled over the crowd. "I will not be subjected to your vulgarities nor lectured on how to treat my companion."

 

Havarian huffed. "Fine, fine, I was simply trying to lift the mood. Anyway, if you can't agree on what you both wish to do in life, the only logical solution is to separate, isn't it? He's been worried about this for months, you know, your ambitions each pulling you in different directions. I mean, how can he move on from his past if you drag him back to Baldur's Gate to cut down everyone who've ever slighted you? And you? You most certainly won't go down in history as the most wicked villain of the Sword Coast if you're stuck aboard a ship on the Inner Sea, so far removed from your enemies."

 

Dorn snapped his head back to the pirate. "He... he has told you this?" he asked, disbelieving.

 

"Well, who else could he tell about all his worries? You? Having seen how you react to white lies, I dare say he was wise to keep this a secret from you. He'd probably have ended up in some ditch after you snapped his neck in anger." Bile rose in Dorn's throat, but he was unable to form his objection into words before an indigo face swam into his vision. Emerging from among the bodies, the slits of Durzen's mask stared him in the face with their unnatural intensity. When he drifted towards them, Havarian's shadows huddled around him, their hands reaching for their weapons. "Who are you supposed to be?"

 

The drow ignored him and signed. "Another of Anqi's many good friends," Dorn supplied, then gave Durzen his reply—his signing was much clumsier and his vocabulary much more limited than the native speaking drow, but Durzen didn't make any comments about it. He nodded and turned.  Dorn followed. "He and his brother have made their own deal with the thief."

 

"Truly? Is that what he said? Was that some code?" Havarian demanded, irritation apparent in his voice. The pirate did not like to be excluded from secrets, it would seem.

 

"He'll guide us to the inn where you've sent your men. His brother has something to discuss with me."

 

The pirate regarded the drow with suspicion. "You're very quick to trust these strangers not to lead you astray. That's unlike you."

 

Dorn frowned. "You think you know what I'm like. You don't."

 

"I call them as I see them," Havarian said with a shrug and spoke not another word. Soon, they reached the _Lusty Bride_. 

 

Several stragglers from the congregation around the great dragon fountain cursed as one of the Karassar men posted at the entrance of the inn turned them away. Upon seeing the mask, the golden and cream-clad guard opened the door. A chime of the bell welcomed them to the dim and cool tavern, so unlike the stuffy mansion. Havarian asked the innkeeper for an ale and guided his shadows to the seats by the counter while Dorn scanned the hall.

 

"Well I'd be damned, one of them appears!" spat the dwarf woman when she saw him. She left her flagon of ale on her table and staggered towards him, her mangy grey cloak wrapped around her neck like a shawl, foam from her drink clinging to her hairy upper lip. She smelled like she'd downed at least two barrels of her drink beforehand. "About time you tell us something useful. Jazim's been feeding us some shite about an argument, and you and the other one leaving on urgent business, but I say something stinks about all of this! I know that rich bastard thinks he can do whatever he pleases as long as he's got daddy's gold to throw around, but he's been lying to us, I tell ya! And Lyeswyn Amberheart doesn't take kindly to that!"

 

Dorn wondered who the 'us' referred to because there was nobody else in the inn beside the fat master and his even fatter wife, who was entertaining Havarian with her wide bosom on display. That was strange; Brigov and the pirate's men should have been here a long time ago. And so should Erthas. Just as he was about to find the other drow to discuss this matter, Durzen appeared by his side and signed with some haste. 'Brother followed the others,' he said and squinted his bright eyes behind the slits. Dorn could feel the tension in his rigid pose. Something wasn't right.

 

"Are you listenin' to me?" Lyeswyn groaned and tried to grab his mantle but he sidestepped her clumsy motion.

 

"Where are the others?" he demanded. She frowned at him and blew a strand of hair from her face.

 

"Briggsy called me over around noon, but I haven't seen the ol' scamp since he left for a meeting with our little lordling. Not seen the other black-face neither, not that I'd ever be accused of wishing to fraternise with the pointy-chins anyhow."

 

A guttural sound came from Durzen's throat. He turned to Dorn and asked him to wait while he went to look for his brother. The half-orc didn't like that, but out of the two of them, it was the drow who knew where he was going. "Fine," he said after a moment, then headed over to Havarian. This was no time to get drunk, and even if the pirate couldn't offer him his magic, Dorn preferred his mind to stay sharp.

 

The bell chimed wildly and the door banged open. Dorn, Havarian's shadows and the dwarf woman snapped their heads towards the sound in alarm. Two people stumbled inside, the smaller one supporting the larger, whose tattooed chest was cut deeply from collarbone to ribs, rivulets of blood streaming down his taut muscles. His thigh was bleeding as well and his left hand was missing three fingers where they'd been slashed off. Before Dorn could move, an arrow whistled and found the muscle-bound Chultan squarely in his broad, naked back. Vaago Nandu twitched and gasped as magical vines burst out of the arrowhead penetrating his chest. The man spat blood, then slid to the floor with a loud _thud_. Erthas tore off his blood-splattered mask and croaked, his sharp-featured face turning ashy.

 

"Arm yourselves! They're coming!"

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> boom


End file.
